‘What colour is it?’ Karl asks. ‘I mean the motorcycle,’ he adds, to make sure he doesn’t have to hear about the colour of the Grunder police station.
‘Yellow, I think, but it’s a good way down and properly filthy. And, not that I know my way around motorcycles, but the bloke who found it claims it’s a Honda, model Africa Twin. I just saw the alert in PIR and was about to call you, just had to nip to the bog first.’
Karen mimes for Karl to go get coffee and lets Grant Hogan prattle on for a while. After all, her colleague has demonstrated a certain degree of alertness, even if he did end up prioritising his morning bathroom visit. And now Grant’s antennae are up. Wasn’t there a fire in the Langevik case, too? At least that’s what he heard from his son-in-law who’s a volunteer firefighter. Signs of burglary, they were saying, too, though the details are apparently hush-hush . . . No, he obviously understands why they can’t say much. At the end of the day, the most important thing is obviously that they do everything they can to nail the bastard who killed Smeed’s wife. Even if she happened to be his ex-wife. They attended the police academy at the same time.
‘Smeed and me, I mean, not the wife,’ Grant Hogan clarifies.
Karen ends the call with a feeling of resignation. She silently accepts the coffee Karl hands her. Even she has to accept that it’s starting to look more like a connection than a coincidence. Common or garden burglaries, committed while the home owners were away. Had the same thing happened in Langevik? Had something that was supposed to be a regular break-in for some reason gone catastrophically wrong? A lone offender who focuses on laptops and jewellery, things that are easily slipped into a backpack. Karen was considering the possibility even before her conversation with Grant Hogan and is now obliged to reluctantly admit the theory does seem to have merit. She doesn’t need to consult a map to see the pattern; the timings are right and the locations of the burglaries shows the perpetrator moving from Noorö down along Heimö’s northern coast, via the ferry port in Thorsvik, during a week-long spree. It’s not hard to imagine him continuing down into Langevik after getting rid of the motorcycle.
‘We’re going to have to contact the media and put a call out for information from anyone who might have picked up a hitchhiker on the southbound road out of Grunder,’ she says. ‘The bloke can’t very well have walked the whole way. Because there’s still nothing about stolen cars in the area, is there?’
‘No, I just checked.’
‘But why would he have singled out Susanne Smeed’s house?’
‘Well, why not?’ Karl replies and blows on his coffee. ‘Susanne’s daughter did say she usually went abroad during Oistra. Maybe the burglar knew that for some reason and freaked out when it turned out she was home after all. I don’t know what method he used to scout out his targets, but there’s a million different ways.’
‘But how could he think she was away? According to Harald Steen, there was smoke coming out of the chimney,’ Karen counters.
‘True, but when Steen saw the smoke, she was already dead. It might have been the killer who lit the stove, not Susanne.’
‘And why would he do something so stupid? If he was looking to burn the house down, he would hardly have taken the roundabout route of firing up an old wood-burning stove. If that’s what he was after, it would have been faster and easier to torch the curtains, like he did up in Thorsvik.’
Karl shrugs.
‘Besides, Susanne’s car was in the driveway. That, if anything, should have tipped him off about her being home, no?’
‘Not necessarily,’ Karl retorts. ‘People often leave their cars at home when they go on vacation, if they can find someone to give them a ride to the airport or ferry. Besides, the car might have been the pivotal draw; he clearly needed a new mode of transportation. He might have broken into the house just to find the car keys.’
‘Assuming the person who lived there would still be asleep. Bloody risky, if you ask me. He can’t have had any idea how many people lived there.’
‘Unless he scouted it out, like I said.’
She listens to the arguments, weighs them one by one and together. She’s still far from convinced, but apparently Karl has decided to defend the simple solution Viggo Haugen and others are clinging to so desperately.
‘Don’t forget Susanne was still at the kitchen table,’ she says. ‘Are you telling me the guy broke in so quietly he managed to surprise her while she was having her morning coffee? That he crossed the yard without her seeing him through the window?’
‘Or maybe he came up from the back. I reckon he was trying to avoid prying eyes; Harald Steen’s windows face the driveway, after all.’
‘True,’ she admits. ‘But still. I don’t think anyone could miss a burglar breaking in while they’re having coffee in the kitchen.’
‘The radio was on. And loud, according to Sören Larsen.’
Karen shakes her head mutely and sips her coffee. She would certainly notice if someone broke into her house, even if both the radio and the TV were on.
Wouldn’t she?
‘Maybe she let him in willingly,’ Karl says after a long pause.
‘Why on earth would she do that?’
‘I don’t know, maybe he came up with a convincing story. Broadband repairman or whatever . . .’
‘On the morning after Oistra? You can do better than that . . .’
‘Or maybe he invented an emergency. It would hardly be the first time a thief used that old trick to get into someone’s home.’
‘Oh come off it, Charlie-boy, we’re talking about Susanne Smeed. If anyone was going to close their door on a person in need, it would have been her.’
‘Or maybe he just threatened his way in with some kind of weapon,’ Karl presses on, ignoring both the nickname and Karen’s objections.
‘And then she just sat down at her kitchen table?’
‘Well, for what it’s worth, that’s what I would do if someone pulled a weapon on me,’ Karl replies. ‘Wouldn’t you?’
57
There can be no longer be any doubt autumn has taken an iron grip on the Dogger Islands. The blustering weather has announced that everyone’s in for a hell of a ride. The drizzle has been replaced with violent gusts sweeping in from the west, a portent of the coming winter. The meteorologists have issued a warning; over the next twenty-four hours, severe winds are expected along the coasts.
By the time Karen exits the motorway toward Langevik, the storm has reached full force. Rain covers the windscreen and the wipers are unable to keep up with the inundation. She drives slowly, hunched over, peering out, parrying with the wheel whenever the wind buffets the car. If the temperature drops below freezing tonight, tomorrow’s going to be hell. She feels the tyres slip in the mud sliding down the steep slopes.
She should really head straight home before the roads become completely impassable. Granted, Sigrid’s doing much better, but she’s far from well. On the other hand, going by Harald Steen’s needn’t take more than thirty minutes. She will have to drink a cup of coffee, of course, and spend some time making polite chitchat before she can bring up her real reason for visiting. The whole thing is a long shot; when she last saw Steen, he’d shown clear signs of dementia. He’d managed to convey accurate information at his last interview – Angela Novak had verified everything he’d told them – but it had taken him a long time to recall the events of that same morning. And now she’s going to ask him to cast his mind back more than forty years.
She has grudgingly begun to concede, to herself, that Karl’s theories may very well prove correct, albeit there are still details that don’t seem to add up. But stranger things have undeniably happened than a series of break-ins, all committed by the same offender, who for some reason escalated from burglary via attempted arson to murder. Or at least manslaughter.
The most recent piece of the puzzle, provided by Grant Hogan in Grunder, has at least been enough to persuade both the chief of police and th
e prosecutor that all resources need to be focused on locating the man on the motorcycle. Haugen, who is sensing the possibility of a swift conclusion to the investigation, would likely pull her off the case immediately if he knew where she was going now and why.
Another gust of wind pushes at the car and she feels the tyres spin in the mud. I really should go straight home, she thinks and turns into Harald Steen’s driveway.
*
‘Do help yourself, pet. They’re not home-made, I’m afraid, but it’s all I have to offer.’
They’ve sat down in Harald Steen’s kitchen, and with a pang of guilt, Karen lets the old man serve her coffee from a thermos and one of the two cinnamon buns Angela Novak put on a plate and covered with clingfilm as an evening treat for Harald.
‘She really does take good care of you, from the looks of it,’ Karen says, biting into the soft bun.
‘Oh really? Yes, I suppose you could say that. But then that’s what they pay her for. Pay her handsomely, compared to what I used to make in my day. Four hundred and twenty marks and forty shillings a month had to be enough for me and the wife to get by on.’
‘Has she been with you long? Angela, I mean.’
‘Oh, no more than a year. Or maybe two at most. It’s my damn heart, it doesn’t pump like it’s supposed to, they say, that’s why I get light-headed. If not for that, I’d be fine on my own, even though Harry’s lost all faith in me. He’s the one who insisted I bring that woman in. Contacted social services without asking me first.’
Karen can’t help but think Harald Steen’s son has probably been chastised about this intervention more than once. She tries a different tack.
‘So it’s like you have your own housekeeper, Harald. Well, you certainly deserve one. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of ground service myself.’
She accompanies the flattery with her sweetest smile. She has to get the old man in a good mood.
‘Is that right? Housekeeper . . .’
Harald Steen hides a pleased smile behind the rim of his coffee cup and pensively slurps away while this new perspective sinks in. Apparently enlivened, he eventually puts his cup down on its saucer with a determined clatter.
‘So, out with it now; surely a lady officer like yourself didn’t stop by just for a cup of coffee?’
‘Lady officer.’ Shuddering, Karen shakes off the phrase and bends down to pick up her handbag from the floor. The whole thing is a long shot and she might as well get it over with.
‘I actually wanted to ask you something. I thought if anyone could help me, it would be you. I’d bet you know everything that’s happened in Langevik.’
Karen quickly glances down at the photograph she’s pulled out of her handbag. Nineteen seventy, smiling young women and men lined up on a flight of stone steps and three children on the lawn below. Then she turns the picture around and places it in front of Harald Steen.
‘Do you have any idea who the people in this picture are, Harald?’
She watches patiently while he slowly reaches for a case on the table, unfolds the arms and places his spectacles on his nose. Without picking it up, he studies the photograph with a furrowed brow. Then he chuckles. A dry, mirthless chuckle followed by a deep sigh.
‘Oh dearie me,’ he says. ‘Where did you find this?’
‘It’s from Susanne’s photo album. From what I gather, the people in the picture lived in the commune her parents started here. The problem is there are no full names in the album, just first names. I’ve written them on the back.’
Harald Steen continues to contemplate the photograph, without speaking or turning the picture over or even picking it up off the table. Karen studies his face, which shows no sign of recognition, with a sinking feeling. It’s almost fifty years ago, she thinks, and he probably can’t even remember what he had for breakfast this morning.
Harald Steen suddenly pushes the picture away, removes his glasses and leans back in his wooden chair.
‘And what good would their names be to you, if I may be so bold as to ask?’
‘Probably no good at all,’ she replies truthfully. ‘I’m simply trying to get a sense of Susanne’s life and figured there might be a small chance she stayed in touch with some of the people who lived here back then. Maybe one of the children.’
Harald Steen snorts derisively.
‘I find that hard to believe; I don’t even think she stayed in touch with her own daughter. She could barely be bothered to put two words together to me either, even though we were neighbours. Susanne was a difficult person, let me tell you. Not quite right up here, if you ask me.’
Harald Steen taps the side of his head and Karen masks a disappointed sigh with another smile.
‘Well, as I said, it was a shot in the dark. I talked to Jaap Kloes, Egil Jensen and Odd Marklund down at the Hare and Crow the other day, and none of them could remember any names, so you’re in good company. But then, it’s almost half a century ago now, so I hadn’t expected anything else.’
This time, the snort Harald Steen lets out is offended and so powerful a droplet of liquid flies from his nostril onto the crocheted tablecloth.
‘Kloes and Jensen! When have they ever known anything of value? Hanging about the pub, boasting, that’s what they’ve been doing all their lives. If they have any callouses on their hands, they’re not from manning the oars, mark my words. Marklund’s a better sort, but how he can bear being around those other two clowns, I’ll never know. Good company, you should be ashamed of yourself.’
He clutches the handle of his cup hard and Karen notices that his hand trembles as he raises it to his lips. Just don’t have a heart attack, she thinks. I don’t have the time or the energy. What did I come here for?
Then Harald Steen slams his cup down.
‘So,’ he says, ‘you asked them first and then you come to see old man Steen when they were of no help. Suddenly, I’m good enough.’
Karen replies instinctively, like a chastised twelve-year-old.
‘They just happened to be there when I went in for a pint. Otherwise I would obviously have come to you first,’ she adds, hoping her words will pour oil on his troubled feelings.
Harald Steen leans forward without replying. Then he presses a yellowed fingernail against the couple at the edge of the upper step in the photograph.
‘Disa Brinckmann, Tomas and Ingela Ekman and Theo Rep,’ he says, slowly moving his finger along the line of people in the picture.
He moves his index finger down to the lower row and declares loudly:
‘Janet and Brandon Connor, Per and Anne-Marie Lindgren.’
After the last name, he leans back in his chair again and pushes his glasses up to his forehead. This time with crossed arms and a smile expressing both vexation and triumph.
‘I don’t remember the children’s names; you’ll have to forgive me,’ he mutters. ‘And Susanne was nothing more than a glint in her father’s eye at that point. She was born the following year, if memory serves.’
Karen stares mutely at the old man on the other side of the table. Old man Steen may not recall what he had for breakfast, but there can be no doubt he’s sure about this. How is it even possible to remember the names of people who were distant neighbours for a short time over forty years ago? She wouldn’t be able to. Karen’s hope had been that Harald Steen might be able to recall one of the many names, or maybe something else that could indirectly lead her to the information she was after. Now he’s named all eight adults in the picture with no hint of hesitation.
‘How is it possible?’ she says again. Out loud, this time.
Harald Steen calmly looks her in the eye and reaches for his coffee cup.
‘I was the one holding the camera.’
58
Normally, driving home from Harald Steen’s house would take ten minutes, at most. This evening, it takes thirty-two. While the car crawls through the mud, Karen’s thoughts are occupied with what Steen just told her.
‘I know the
people in the village looked askance at the young folks up at Lothorp, but I certainly saw no harm in them. And I wasn’t the only one who took a detour up there to have a gander at the beauties.’
At this point, Harald had winked conspiratorially, but it had still taken a minute for the penny to drop and for Karen to realise the draw had been bra-less allure and provincial fantasies about Swedish sin.
‘And how did they like you lurking in the bushes?’
‘Oh no, lass, unlike the others, I walked right in and introduced myself. Was offered tea, because they didn’t drink coffee, oh no, so it’s true, they were a little odd. Well, and then they asked if I would mind taking their picture and one thing led to another.’
And then Harald Steen had told her he’d given them some good advice, sharing what he knew about the farm from Gråå, what the soil up there would accept and what it would spit back out. He’d gone by the farm once a week or so after that, to help them start their potato patch and get some other vegetables growing. A kind of friendship had developed between them; granted, Steen was a bit older than the rest of them, but he’d hardly been an old man in the early seventies, Karen reminded herself.
The car comes to a complete stop on the slight incline north of the harbour. The tyres spin in the mud and she realises she’s going to have to find something to put under them for friction. She opens the door with a sigh and climbs out. The rain lashes her face while she folds down the tailgate and with stiff fingers opens the green plastic box she keeps in the Ranger’s cargo bed. She spends a second pondering which tool to use, then pulls out the saw. Freezing muck seeps in over the edge of her boots when she steps into the ditch to reach the juniper bushes on the other side.
Fatal Isles Page 29
