‘The question is why he then went one step further,’ Karen continues without taking her eyes off Kvanne.
‘Bloody stupid,’ Karl adds. ‘I mean, we’d never have the resources to send a bunch of technicians out if it were a regular break-in, but now that it’s murder, it’s a different story. I’m told all three houses are riddled with technicians now.’
At this point, Gary Brataas breaks in, refusing to be silenced any longer.
‘If you have any evidence against my client with regards to the alleged murder or manslaughter, I suggest you share it and drop this am-dram performance.’
*
‘So that was a wildly successful interview,’ Karl says twenty minutes later in the lift back up to the CID.
He looks tired, Karen observes, watching him dig through his trouser pockets.
‘Don’t get me wrong, if we were investigating nothing but a handful of break-ins, the interview would have been a roaring success,’ he adds and pops a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth.
Against his lawyer’s advice, Linus Kvanne had confessed to four burglaries: one on Noorö, one outside Thorsvik, one unreported break-in in a summer cottage in Haven and finally, the one in Grunder. But he strongly denied any involvement in the murder of Susanne Smeed throughout the interview.
‘I’ve never even fucking been to Langevik,’ he’d told them.
The problem is, they believe him.
62
‘Want to come out for a smoke?’
Kore holds up a packet of cigarettes and jerks his head in the direction of the door. Karen nods.
‘Eirik would kill me,’ Kore says in a stifled voice, then exhales with a contented groan. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if he could smell the smoke all the way from Germany,’ he adds and takes another drag.
They’ve sat down at a table in the outdoor serving area of Repet Bar and Restaurant, where a surprising number of intrepid souls are defying the autumn chill with the help of heaters and blankets. Kore wouldn’t mind staying out all night; Eirik has gone off to some new florist fair in Frankfurt and his boyfriend is seizing the opportunity to indulge in beer and cigarettes.
They’re an odd couple, Karen notes, studying the silver skull ring on her friend’s tattooed hand. She’d known her old schoolfriend Eirik was gay long before that night twenty-two years ago, when he had finally confided in her, then swore her to silence. No one else could know, especially not his father, it would be the death of him.
So she had kept shtum, watching with dismay as Eirik fought to live up to the world’s expectations. As he did harm to himself by pretending to be ‘one of the lads’, in school, on the football field, with his family. As he spent more and more weekends in London, Copenhagen, Amsterdam and Stockholm. Anywhere; so long as it was far from his parents, team mates and the boys down the pub, Eirik had dared to be himself. During her own time in England, Karen had been able to study his double life from up close. John had eventually taken to calling the guestroom behind the kitchen Eirik’s room. He’d never understood Eirik’s need to hide who he was. Why couldn’t he just be honest, it’s the nineties now for God’s sake, even in Doggerland? It’s no big deal nowadays, he’d said. Karen and Eirik had exchanged looks; a Brit could never understand.
And when Eirik finally stepped out of the closet, it hadn’t been an expression of confidence so much as of frustration and anger. That day in December, almost eleven years ago, when a call from Karen’s mother had broken down all his walls. John was dead. Mathis was dead. Karen had stopped living. That day, Eirik had been seized by a sudden epiphany about the fragility of life, which he’d been unable to ignore. That day, Eirik From had let himself fall apart and had screamed at his father and the whole world that they could go to hell. And he shouldn’t count on getting any fucking grandchildren.
He’d been there when Karen moved back home. She’d only realised that much later. Through thick layers of grief, her mum’s and Eirik’s anxious voices had drifted up from the kitchen to her bedroom. She’d heard his awkward attempts at consoling her mother, had heard him burst into tears, collect himself and try again. And again. And she’d thought to herself it was a good thing her mum and Eirik at least had each other. Now that she no longer existed.
It was only after several months, as she emerged from her room, rigid with grief, that she’d noticed something different about her friend. His transformation had begun.
These days, Eirik lives up to every gay stereotype there is; he’s well-dressed, well-groomed and slightly effeminate in his mannerisms and way of speaking. That he’s also a trained florist and owns a nationwide chain of flower shops only serves to cement the impression. Eirik has definitely come out of the closet.
Over the years that followed, he would introduce his boyfriends to her, one after the other; most looked remarkably like Eirik, and they rarely lasted long enough for her to commit their names to memory. Then Kore came along.
Maybe it was the fact that he was the complete opposite of Eirik that had made Karen understand instantly, once the first shock had subsided, that Kore’s name was worth remembering. Two men could hardly be less alike in appearance, temperament, interests, social circles. Kore, a music producer sporting a black mohawk, tattooed arms and gold rings in both ears. And Eirik, a florist who favoured freshly ironed dress shirts and shiny patent-leather shoes. If Eirik was the thesis, Kore was his antithesis. Or possibly the other way around. Six years later, they’re still together.
Now, Kore runs a hand through his hair without noticing that the column of ash at the end of his cigarette breaks off, sprinkling his dyed black mane with white flakes.
‘I feel like a roast chicken,’ Karen says, touching her burning cheek. ‘How can people stand sitting under these heaters?’
She gestures toward the narrow street where glazed outdoor serving areas are lined up along the old brick buildings. Buildings that once housed the ropewalk, the old lanoline factory, the textile mill and a number of other industries that have long since closed down or moved to modern facilities. Now, the old industrial area has been turned into a neighbourhood filled with restaurants, designer shops, cafés and bars. Innovative restaurateurs have done their best to come up with solutions that both keep nicotine addicts happy and comply with new legislation. Any bar owner who wants to stay in business knows it’s crucial to provide a place for smokers to enjoy their vice behind plexiglass and under heaters.
‘Last packet for me,’ Kore says, raising his cigarette. ‘I’m picking Eirik up at the airport at half eight tomorrow morning and he’s worse than a bloodhound. Hey, what the . . .’
Karen jumps when Kore whistles piercingly. The sound reverberates between the glass walls, but doesn’t seem able to escape the incubator they’re in. Kore jumps up and waves his non-cigarette arm violently.
‘Friis, bloody hell, come here!’
A moment later, Kore has extricated himself from the serving area, dashed across the street and thrown his arms around a man. Karen watches as they exchange a few words. Then Kore points toward the table where she’s still sitting and the man turns around. Karen recognises him with a start. It’s Leo Friis, who now, visibly hesitant, allows himself to be ushered toward Repet by Kore. This time, he has no shopping trolley with him and the grey blanket is nowhere to be seen. He still looks mangy, however, and Karen can see the uncertainty in his eyes as he glances up at the restaurant. The noise inside has reached ear-splitting levels and is streaming out through the open doors. The sound makes Leo freeze mid-step.
‘It’s all right, we’re outside,’ Kore says reassuringly and manages to drag him into the outdoor serving area. ‘This is Karen. Karen, this is the man, the myth, the legend, Leo Friis.’
For a frozen moment, their eyes meet. She does a split second calculation; should she tell Kore they’ve met or pretend they’re strangers? She decides to leave the question open and holds her hand out.
‘Hi, Leo. Have a seat.’
Leo shakes her ha
nd and nods briefly.
‘Hi, Karen.’
Nothing in their greeting suggests they’ve met before, much less Leo has been the subject of a witness interview. Kore looks completely unperturbed by his friend’s ragged appearance. Karen is suddenly unsure; does he even know Leo’s homeless and spends his nights under the loading docks down in the New Harbour? At the same time, Kore seems a bit more hyper than usual.
‘What would you like? My treat,’ he says and waves a waitress over. ‘Same again for you, Karen?’
After ordering, he turns back to Leo.
‘Bloody hell, Leo, it’s good to see you. How long have you been back for?’
‘Just since the start of the summer. Since mid-May, I think.’
‘What the fuck, you’ve been home all summer without getting in touch? What have you been up to? How are you doing?’
‘Maybe this would work better if you asked one question at a time?’ Karen says calmly and makes room on the table for the waitress’s heavy tray.
Leo shoots her a look.
‘Sorry, sorry, I sound like my mother,’ Kore says. ‘I’m just so bloody happy to see you,’ he adds and raises his glass. ‘Gottjer, guys, cheers!’
‘Gottjer,’ Karen and Leo say in unison.
They raise their glasses to eye level, lower them again and drink as one.
‘Karen and I have actually met,’ Leo says after putting his glass down and wiping the froth from his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Had breakfast together.’
Kore’s eyes dart back and forth between them, his nervous chatter briefly giving way to speechlessness.
‘You two? What, you know each other?’ he demands in disbelief.
‘We met once. I interviewed Leo as a witness in connection with a case I’m working on.’
Kore opens his eyes wide in a way that suggests to Karen he’s far from as unconcerned about his friend as he’s making out to be.
‘But you’re working on the Langevik murder, aren’t you? Hell, did you see it, Leo?’
Karen raises her hands in a cautionary gesture when Kore’s voice makes the people at the next table turn to look at them. She answers for Leo.
‘If only. No, but Leo was able to give someone an alibi for the time of the murder.’
‘That’s bloody exciting. Who?’
Kore’s worry has given way to unadulterated curiosity.
‘Oh, come off it. Do you really think I’m going to answer that? But it was valuable information and it spared us a lot of work.’
She smiles at Leo, who raises his glass again and drinks. He doesn’t return the smile, but some of the tension in his eyes and body language seems to have eased. Kore looks calmer, too, as he turns back to Leo, now using a normal, almost gentle tone.
‘I heard you had a rough go of it after you quit. You know how people talk. But I haven’t heard a word for a year. I almost figured you’d gone off grid.’
For the first time, there’s a hint of a smile behind Leo’s beard.
‘That’s exactly what I did. Until you outed me.’
‘Seriously?’ Kore looks around the tables around them and leans forward.
‘No one seems to recognise you,’ he says quietly. ‘And seriously, in that get-up, no wonder. No offence, but you look like shit.’
This time, Leo laughs. A quick chuckle, hard around the edges. A laugh that shows he’s aware of his deterioration and accepts it.
A knot grows in the pit of Karen’s stomach when it begins to dawn on her who Leo Friis really is.
63
Sigrid drives maddeningly slowly and carefully. What else can you expect, Karen thinks to herself and leans back in the passenger seat. An inexperienced driver with a copper sitting next to her in a car that’s seen better days. At least the garage fixed the starter; when Sigrid picked her up at Repslagar Square ten minutes ago the car sounded no worse than any other Toyota its age.
‘Did you manage to get everything from the flat?’ Karen asks, adjusting her seatbelt, which is cutting into her throat.
‘Everything I want to keep,’ Sigrid says, jerking her head toward the back seat, where paper bags full of clothes jostle for space with a couple of blue canvas bags. ‘There’s more in the boot,’ she adds, checking the rear-view mirror before turning on the indicator. ‘Did you have a good time? Smells like you did. How much did you have to drink?’
Karen slowly turns her head and studies Sigrid with a mocking smile.
‘Three pints, Mummy,’ she says. ‘Yes, seeing Kore’s always lovely. And you’re very kind to pick me up. The sofa in Marike’s studio has its limitations as far as comfort’s concerned.’
‘He was pretty good-looking. The one in the leather jacket, I mean.’
Sigrid’s trying to sound casual. She’s not successful.
‘He is. His boyfriend is too,’ Karen replies drily. ‘And nice.’
‘Shit. That’s a shame.’
‘Eirik and I are friends from school; I know Kore through him.’
‘What about the other bloke? Have you known him for a hundred years, too?’
‘I don’t know him at all. But apparently Kore and he are old friends.’
‘He looked a bit . . . tattered. Manky, kind of.’
Karen makes no reply.
‘Do you know who The Clamp are?’ she says after a while.
Sigrid looks at her in surprise.
‘Of course I know who they are. Or were, to be precise. Why do you ask?’
‘We were talking about them earlier, is all. Apparently, they were pretty big.’
‘Sure, but they broke up several years ago. Tragic, according to some people, but I don’t know. You have to quit while you’re ahead.’
Karen takes in Sigrid’s sage view and gives her an amused look.
‘So how do you know when you’re ahead?’
‘You never do until it’s too late; which is when you realise you should have quit sooner. I mean, they were all right, but not exactly my thing.’
‘What exactly is your thing? Hip-hop? Boys dressed like pre-schoolers with oversized jewellery . . .?’
Sigrid shoots her a look.
‘Come on, what are you, a hundred? You don’t like rap?’
‘Sure. I saw John Cooper Clarke in London in eighty-four. Me and a friend cut class for two days, took the ferry over; Mum was furious.’
‘And who the fuck is John Cooper Clarke?’
‘Fancy Cuba but it cost me less to Majooorca.’
Sigrid shoots her another incredulous glance.
‘What are you on about?’
‘Forget it. It was a long time ago.’
‘Craving,’ Sigrid exclaims suddenly. ‘A kind of mix of rap and jazz and African music, but it’s a hell of a lot more than that. Art and theatre and . . . well, everything. It has no boundaries, sort of.’
‘Craving? As in . . . craving?’
‘Yeah. Like a whole concept. That’s the point, to not limit yourself or wait for something to come to you. Everything right now. Get it?’
Karen doesn’t.
They sit in silence as mile after mile of tarmac rolls by beneath the car. Karen closes her eyes and lets her mind wander. It’s nice to have company, to just sit next to someone in silence. Even if Sigrid doesn’t know who John Cooper Clarke is. She’d love him; Karen should dig up some old albums. It’s nice not to be alone in the house, too – at least for a while. She’s promised Sigrid she can stay in the guest room while she renovates the house she just inherited.
They’ve agreed not to discuss the investigation. Sigrid won’t ask, Karen won’t say more than Sigrid can read for herself in the papers.
It is strange, though, that she never asks anything, Karen muses. Doesn’t she care who killed her mum? Or is she simply an obedient detective’s daughter, trained not to ask questions? And what made her so relentlessly furious with her parents? She’s not going to ask; if Sigrid wants to talk, she’s going to have to bring it up.
She’d had no chance to speak to Kore alone. Karen had a thousand questions to ask him about Leo Friis, but unlike Kore, she hadn’t wanted to come across as too curious. She’d gathered he’d been the guitarist in The Clamp. She vaguely remembered some of their songs, but for some reason she’d always assumed they were either British or American. They’d been popular during a time in her life when all her strength had been required just to get out of bed in the morning.
Over the years, she’s come to understand that for some reason Doggerland, or at least Dunker, has become some kind of hub for the music industry, the home of countless successful songwriters and producers, but she’s never kept up with it. Kore looked through her music collection six years ago, then concluded with a sigh there wasn’t much to interest even vinyl collectors.
Then he’d inundated her with playlists. The hateful heirs of the pretentious mix tapes guys had bombarded her with during her dating years.
‘There’s this song you just have to listen to’ is a sentence that still makes Karen instinctively cover her ears.
Kore’s playlists had contained songs recorded in his own studio at KGB Productions and other things he thought she might like. And sure, she listens to them sometimes, though not nearly as often as Kore imagines. On the contrary, she often seeks out silence. Advertisement jingles, music in every scene of every film, the constant background music playing in shops, at restaurants and in bars wearies her.
But the KGB parties are usually a good time; through Kore, she’s met artists that would likely have most people fumbling around for their autograph pad. Leo Friis is, so far as she can remember, not one of them. On the other hand, he probably looked pretty different just a few years ago. At least judging by the fact that no one seems to recognise the rock star hiding inside the bearded tramp. The only looks he got from the other patrons, both at the café the other day and tonight at Repet, were disapproving ones.
Fatal Isles Page 32
