Now she folds up the last paper carrier bag, pushes it into the paper recycling receptacle and gets back into the car. Tiredness is creeping up on her again and she feels warm and sticky after lugging chairs and bottles around. And this blasted drizzle! She looks up at the leaden sky. After a brief reprieve yesterday, the rain had picked up again while they were in the boathouse; they’d had to dash back and forth to the main house to fetch coffee and more wine and go to the bathroom crouched under a tarp.
A pint at the Hare and Crow would be just the ticket. She can probably get her hands on an evening paper at the bar, too; this time of year, the old men usually start arriving around noon with Kvellsposten under their arms. Outside, things are bleak and grim, but inside, there’s the two things that top Karen’s list at the moment: light and company. Arild Rasmussen won’t be the only publican rubbing his hands in glee at the sound of marks and shillings rustling and jingling into tills over the next few months as the card readers beep and more orders are shouted.
Karen checks her watch – almost half one. She turns the key in the ignition, checks the mirror and turns the car around.
She slows down after a while, leaning across the passenger seat for a better look. A sudden feeling of déjà vu comes over her and for a moment, she’s confused by what she’s seeing. But this time, the hunched-over figure climbing the grassy slope isn’t Susanne Smeed. There’s someone else in her house. Someone who’s hard at work dragging things out and dumping them in a pile in the garden.
Karen pulls over. She was present when Karl called Susanne’s daughter to inform her that the crime scene investigation had been concluded and the police no longer needed access to the house. But for some reason, she hadn’t thought Sigrid would come out here. She watches the slender girl sit down on the front steps, seemingly unable to continue her hauling. There doesn’t seem to be anyone with her; Karen waits a few more minutes before putting her hand on the gear stick. Then she removes it again; something about the desolate figure makes it impossible to drive away. Cursing inwardly, she pulls the key out of the ignition and opens the car door.
*
Sigrid is resting her head on her arms and doesn’t notice her visitor until Karen is only feet away. She looks up and makes as if to stand, but immediately slumps back down.
‘Hi, Sigrid, it’s just me, Karen.’
Sigrid nods, but says nothing. Her face is ashen and her eyes glassy. Grief, Karen thinks. That’s what it looks like. She briskly walks up and sits down next to the lonely girl. Sigrid slowly turns to face her, then she coughs and turns away again. The racking sound makes it clear to Karen that the state of Sigrid’s eyes is not entirely caused by crying. Sigrid has a fever.
‘Sweetheart, are you OK?’
At least she had the good sense to put on a raincoat, Karen notes, studying Sigrid’s long wet hair that’s sticking to her forehead and cheeks. She gently pushes it back and puts a hand on Sigrid’s forehead.
‘Sigrid, you’re ill. You can’t sit out here.’
With a firm arm around Sigrid’s thin torso, she pulls her up and leads her in through the open door. Instead of taking her to the kitchen, she continues into the living room and deposits Sigrid on the sofa. There’s going to be ugly stains, she realises, seeing the trickles of water meandering down Sigrid’s raincoat and being absorbed by the pale upholstery.
‘How long have you had a fever?’
‘Just today, I think.’
Her voice is weak and carries no trace of the defiance she exhibited when Karl and Karen met her in her flat in Gaarda.
‘Have you taken anything for it?’
Sigrid coughs and shakes her head.
‘Wait here.’
Karen climbs the stairs to the first floor in four strides. Hopefully, Susanne has something other than sleeping pills in her bathroom cabinet.
Within moments, she watches Sigrid obediently putting a Tylenol in her mouth and accepting the glass of water Karen holds out to her. She winces as she swallows the pill.
‘Sore throat?’
Sigrid nods.
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Since yesterday. I was going to go through . . . I have to take care of . . .’
Her voice breaks and she can’t finish the sentence. Instead, she lies down on her side with her head on the armrest and her feet on the floor, her wellies still on. Karen watches the damp from her hair soak into a pink cushion.
Karen takes a seat in one of the armchairs across from the sofa and studies the pitiful figure. Sigrid must have walked here from the funeral service; this was where she was going when she left Jounas in the car park and cut across the cemetery. Karen quickly runs down her list of options. She can’t just leave Sigrid here, she’s much too ill to be alone. But she absolutely doesn’t want to stay in Susanne’s house, looking after her troublesome brat. Even disregarding how creepy it would feel, it would likely be an ethical misstep for the lead investigator to spend the night in the victim’s house, whether or not the technical investigation has been completed. Calling Jounas and asking him to come look after his daughter is unappealing for a couple of reasons: Sigrid doesn’t seem to want anything to do with her father and Karen can’t bear the thought of having to speak with him. She doesn’t have the boyfriend, Samuel Nesbö’s, phone number, if they’re even still involved, and she doesn’t know any other friends of Sigrid’s. She makes equally short work of dismissing every possible excuse she can think of: Sigrid will probably be fine on her own so long as I help her get into bed; I can always pop by tomorrow to look in on her; Yes, she’s ill, but hardly dying; If I hadn’t happened to drive by, she would’ve been on her own anyway.
Why did I bloody pull over?
Then she gets up.
‘Sigrid, you can’t stay here, you’re going to have to come back to mine.’
The response, whatever it was supposed to be, is drowned out by a coughing fit.
‘Can you get up and walk with me to my car? It’s up on the road.’
To her surprise, Sigrid slowly pushes up into sitting position and nods.
‘I saw your bag in the hallway, is there anything else you’d like to bring?’
Sigrid mutely shakes her head.
The house keys are on the hallway table and after a quick check to make sure the hob and the coffee maker are switched off, Karen turns the lights out and locks the front door behind them. She glances over at the front yard. A pile of clothes lies discarded on the muddy lawn, alongside cushions, curtains and floral bedsheets. Next to the pile is a large cardboard moving box, sodden with rain. Karen recognises some of Susanne’s ornaments; a lamp base and a handful of picture frames stick out of the box, which is on the verge of collapse. She briefly considers looking for a tarp to cover everything with; nosy neighbours might be tempted to look through the pile, but when another coughing fit makes Sigrid double over, she dismisses the idea. The most important thing now is to get the girl dry and tucked into bed.
*
Karen is standing in the doorway to her guest room, watching the sleeping girl. Her hair is still damp; her attempts to blow-dry it while Sigrid reluctantly drank some warm rosehip soup were only partially successful. There was no time to change the sheets, Sigrid is sleeping in Marike’s sheets, at least for one night. The thermometer had read 39.8, after nothing but a few mouthfuls of rosehip soup but with paracetamol in her system. Karen’s going to have to check again in a few hours, but right now there’s probably nothing more she can do. She closes the door to the little bedroom as quietly as she can, then changes her mind and opens it a crack before going downstairs.
52
The weather has alternated between drizzle and downpour for two weeks now. The ground is sodden and the smaller roads are beginning to take on an increasingly brown shade as mud slowly spreads from flooding ditches. People have wrapped themselves in windproof cocoons of unfashionable but practical jackets and coats.
A months-long battle against
the elements is commencing under swaying streetlamps, in deserted playgrounds and in silent, empty parks. Strong winds and sleet are going whip the land, from the mountain ridges of Noorö to the vast heathlands of Frisel. Storms will rise and subside, ripping up laboriously built fences and walls which will then be repaired without protest by men with stiff, frozen hands. Trees will snap, ships will be forced into ports and fishermen will wait for their next chance to head out with a mix of impatience and dread.
Women will be torn between relief at the ships being forced to lie at anchor and financial concerns when no fish are caught. Heavy shopping bags will be carried against the wind with inward cursing at rising prices and mortgages payments and muttered prayers for the money to last until the next payday.
But something else will emerge from the darkness, too. Black windows in the blocks of flats will be lit by electric wreaths, stars and half-moons. Balcony railings will be wrapped with pine branches and fairy lights and tea-light holders will be dug out of attics and taken off shop shelves, smoke detectors will get new batteries, wood-fired stoves will creak in the heat and birch wood will crackle on the hearths.
*
Karen set her alarm for six but wakes up thirty minutes before it goes off. The sound of footsteps has penetrated the deep layers of her sleep, finally piercing her awareness with a pinprick of fear. Moments later, there’s the sound of a rumbling cough from the next room and her memory kicks into gear. Sigrid. Karen hurries over to the guestroom, stops in the doorway and looks at Sigrid, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed.
‘Good morning. How are you feeling?’
‘What am I doing here? Is this your house?’
‘Yes, you’re in my house in Langevik, just about a mile from your mum’s. You don’t remember me bringing you here yesterday?’
Sigrid shakes her head and winces with pain.
‘You were very sick. Are very sick,’ Karen adds and frowns when another coughing fit racks the slight body in front of her.
‘I have a vague memory of being in a car,’ Sigrid croaks once the coughing subsides. ‘And rosehip soup; I hate rosehip soup.’
‘All right, no more rosehip soup.’
‘Do you have any painkillers? My head hurts like hell.’
‘It’s probably the fever. Have you checked your temperature this morning?’
Another headshake, gentler this time. Karen nods toward the bedside table, where the thermometer’s waiting.
‘Go ahead; I’ll get you something to drink.’
*
Karen leaves Sigrid safely tucked into bed and climbs into her car. In the past hour, Sigrid’s temperature has fallen to 39.2 and will be lowered further by the Tylenol she took, along with a cup of herbal tea and a sandwich she left untouched.
‘Call anytime you want,’ Karen had told her, jotting her mobile number down on a piece of paper she placed next to the teacup. ‘Your backpack’s here, next to the bed. Grab whatever you want in the kitchen, but the most important thing is that you stay in bed and rest.
Sigrid had dozed off before she’d finished the sentence.
At exactly 7.20 a.m., Karen steps out of the lift on the third floor of the Dunker police station; considerably earlier than she would usually get to work. It feels imperative to be early this particular morning. She wants to be able to look up at her boss, who will most likely – true to form – stroll in around nine, with an air of faint surprise. Even though she usually comes in around nine, too. Jounas Smeed is coming back to work after a week’s suspension.
Two minutes later, she lets out a curse and throws her handbag down on her desk.
53
He’s already at his desk. Through the glass door, Karen can see he’s made himself coffee and is now studying something on his computer screen with a look of deep concentration. By all appearances, Jounas Smeed has been at work for some time already and doesn’t seem to have noticed her arrival. With more inward cursing, she hangs her coat up on the hook behind her desk.
Just do it, she tells herself. He’s not going to go away, much as you might wish he would. With a sigh, she walks over to her boss’s office. She pauses for a few seconds outside the door. Three quick raps on the doorframe, another few seconds of waiting before Jounas Smeed, with studied slowness turns to her and only then takes his eyes off the screen.
He gives her the same slightly surprised look she’d planned to give him and then nods vaguely. Karen reads it as an invitation to open the door and come in.
‘Morning, Eiken, have a seat.’
She does as she’s told.
‘So, welcome back,’ she says.
He nods at his screen without replying. Then he says:
‘Have you checked PIR?’
‘You mean this morning? No, I only just got here.’
‘The station sergeant called me around five this morning. It’s been a busy night.’
Even though Karen can hear how unprofessional she sounds, her first reaction is to gripe about the station sergeant contacting Smeed instead of her:
‘Called you? Why? You weren’t officially back on the job until this morning.’
Smeed chuckles and spreads his hands.
‘All right, down, girl. I guess he’d heard I was coming back and figured it made more sense to contact me directly. Think of it as a lie-in.’
Lie-in, she thinks bitterly. I’ve been up since half five, looking after your sick daughter; I’d like to see if she’d let you do the same. That thought cheers her up a little.
‘What happened?’ she asks.
‘Two young women have been brutally assaulted and raped in Moerbeck: one on Saturday night in a shrubbery lining the pedestrian path from the town centre bus stop and the other in a bike room in the basement of Karpvägen 122 last night.’
‘Bloody hell. But still, it’s a bit odd for the station sergeant to wake you up over two cases of rape.’
As she says it, Karen realises why the head of the CID was contacted. Jounas Smeed reads her face and nods in confirmation.
‘Murder,’ he corrects her. ‘The girl on Karpvägen died in the ambulance from her injuries.’
He leans back and picks up a mug adorned with the Thingwalla Football Club logo.
‘Nice,’ he says after taking a sip. ‘I assume there’s an invoice on its way that you’d like me to pay.’
‘I felt it was a good investment. If you have a different assessment, I can always take the machine home and pay for it myself.’
‘Speaking of assessments,’ Jounas says, without commenting on her offer, ‘we will, as I’m sure you understand, have to rethink the allocation of our resources in the light of what’s happened up in Moerbeck. I’ve already put together the team I want on this case and called them in. Both Cornelis Loots and Astrid Nielsen will be joining me; it’s always good to have a woman detective in cases like these. Anyway, I’m sure you understand this will have a significant impact on your investigation; we’re just going to have to share the resources.’
So you’re not taking Karl, Karen thinks, hiding her surprise. After herself and Evald Johannisen, Karl is their most experienced detective. I suppose you don’t want anyone challenging your opinions. Especially now that Johannisen’s not here to lick your boots.
Out loud, she says:
‘I’m glad I get to keep Karl. And how do you see this working? My investigation has only just got started.’
‘Well, you’ve had a week. No offence, but your results haven’t exactly been stellar so far, despite every available resource being at your disposal. And, as I said, I’m sure you understand we have to review our priorities. Especially with Evald gone, though I spoke with him and he will, I’m happy to say, be back soon, at which point we’ll reassess again.’
If you stick me with Johannisen, I quit.
‘All right,’ she says quickly. ‘But what does Haugen say about this? I’m reporting directly to him and Vegen, not you.’
‘I guess you’ll have to ask him. He
was going to call you this morning, or so he said when I spoke to him a while ago.’
*
The call from Viggo Haugen comes eleven minutes later. The chief of police says nothing unexpected, only what Karen has already realised and, if she’s being honest, thinks is right. They need to reallocate their resources and this time Prosecutor Dineke Vegen and Viggo Haugen are in complete agreement. They need to focus on Moerbeck.
‘Besides, you said yourself it looks like those burglaries are connected to the murder of Susanne Smeed,’ Viggo Haugen adds, probably unaware of the relief in his voice.
The media’s criticism of the police and their failure to make progress in the Susanne Smeed case had intensified after Haugen’s shambolic press conference. The fact that all information is being channelled through the Head of Media has done nothing to soothe tempers and Haugen has been hung out to dry in several news outlets. Now everyone’s attention will be redirected, and this time, Jounas Smeed will be in charge of the investigation. Viggo Haugen can relax.
‘I said there might be a connection,’ Karen says, ‘But it’s certainly not a given. And even if that were the case, that doesn’t mean the perpetrator has been identified, much less arrested.’
‘True, but now that we know the likely course of events, you’re going to have to focus on that lead. I’m sure he’ll be in custody soon enough. It goes without saying you still have access to any extra resources you might need once you’re ready to make an arrest. Or if you identify an alternative perpetrator, I guess. Either way, if there’s a break in the case, you can request assistance. For now, we have to reprioritise,’ Haugen says, stressing each syllable.
Fatal Isles Page 27
