Is he going to go straight from Repet’s heated outdoor serving area to one of the loading docks tonight? Karen wonders. How long can he keep sleeping rough? The temperature is still hovering around zero, but it’s a matter of days before the frost kills whatever’s still alive in her garden. And probably a few of the poor sods sleeping under the stars rather than in one of the shelters.
‘He keeps to himself,’ Gro Aske had told her. ‘A bit nuts when it comes to confined spaces.’
I wonder if he’s on something or if he’s just had a meltdown, Karen ponders but is snatched out of her disjointed reverie when Sigrid turns off the main road and the first pothole on Langeviksvej jolts the car.
‘You won’t tell Dad about me living with you, will you?’
She straightens up in her seat and shoots Sigrid a quick look.
‘No, not if you don’t want me to. You’re an adult. But I do think it might be good for you to talk to him. Especially now that your mum—’
‘Do you want to talk to him?’ Sigrid cuts in. ‘Is my dad a person you feel good talking to?’
Her voice is harsh and scornful, and Karen remembers her first interview with Sigrid up in Gaarda. The rapport they’ve built up over the past few days is still fragile, that wall can probably be put back up very quickly. Sigrid certainly seems poised to pull out brick and trowel.
‘No,’ Karen replies frankly. ‘He’s not.’
But I have to talk to him. Tomorrow. The order had come just before she left work: the prosecutor’s office in city hall at nine tomorrow morning. Chief of Police Viggo Haugen had sent it to both Jounas Smeed and her.
She knows exactly what the meeting’s going to be about.
64
‘I saw you last night at Repet.’
The meeting with Viggo Haugen is over. The expected things were said and nothing else. Jounas and Karen have taken the lift down and walked through the culvert under Redehusgate to avoid having to dash across the car park in the rain. Now they’re standing in the police station garage, waiting for the lift that will take them up to the CID.
When she makes no reply, Jounas Smeed continues:
‘I was walking past and saw you in the outdoor serving area in fairly dubious company, if you don’t mind me saying.’
Still without answering, she gives the lift button, which is already lit, an annoyed push.
‘Well, I suppose your gay friends are fine, but the other one looked like hell,’ he goes on, unconcerned. ‘No kidding, he reminded me of the blokes who hang out behind the market hall. I actually almost thought I recognised him.’
‘You should have.’
Jounas Smeed looks nonplussed and she decides not to tell him Leo’s the homeless man who provided him with an alibi.
‘Given as how you have such an eye for people,’ she says instead in a voice dripping with honey. ‘You can tell a person’s character straight away.’
‘Cut it out, Eiken. You’re an officer of the law; do you really think it’s appropriate for you to be out on town with people like him?’
‘What can I say, I’ve traded up. Since Oistra, I mean.’
Jounas Smeed is quiet for a second or two, seemingly holding his breath. Then he lets the air out in a heavy sigh and smacks his tongue reprovingly.
‘Karen, Karen. Always so angry. Always so defensive. It’s getting to be a problem, you know.’
‘Maybe I have my reasons.’
Finally, the lift dings. Karen steps into it and silently watches the shiny steel doors slide shut.
‘I understand you’re disappointed they’re suspending the investigation, but you can hardly blame me for that. At the end of the day, it’s the prosecutor’s decision and she and Haugen agree; we have our guy, he’s been arrested.’
‘We have a guy, who has confessed to four burglaries and two counts of attempted arson. He wasn’t the one who killed Susanne.’
‘And how can you be so damn sure?’
‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we?’
The message had been clear: the murder of Susanne Smeed is considered solved. All attempts at finding alternative motives and perpetrators are to cease.
‘No, I suppose we won’t,’ Smeed replies. ‘But on the other hand, you didn’t come up with a single concrete theory in the time you had.’
‘A whole week, you mean?’
‘Regardless, at least we finally nicked Kvanne, and no thanks to you, by the way. If not for that tip-off, he’d probably had time to break in and set fire to a few more houses by now. Maybe killed some other poor sod unlucky enough to be home.’
The lift dings again and they get out. As Karen reaches out to open the frosted glass door with the police logo and worn letters announcing the domain of the CID, Jounas Smeed puts his hand on the doorframe, blocking her from entering.
‘You know what the deal is, Eiken,’ he says. ‘Björken joins the Moerbeck case for the next few weeks before he shoves off home to change nappies. You will discontinue all active work on the Langevik case and instead focus on putting together the final report on Kvanne. And you will keep your thoughts to yourself in there. Not a word.’
65
Karen Eiken Hornby really has kept her thoughts to herself. For two whole days she’s resisted the temptation to speak her mind. She hasn’t said one critical word about the decision.
‘The prosecutor really thinks she can make the charges stick?’ Karl had asked.
‘It looks that way.’
Or maybe she doesn’t give a toss, Karen had thought to herself. Other cases were piling up: assaults, drugs, prostitution. And Moerbeck. Despite concerted efforts, no suspect has been arrested. Quite the reverse, in fact; the number of raped and assaulted women has gone from two to three, the most recent attack taking place in the early hours of the previous day. Still only one death, but the latest victim, a twenty-seven-year-old mother of two on her way home from the nightshift at Thysted Hospital is in intensive care, the same department where she’d been working just hours before.
On account of a sore throat and a rising temperature, Greta Hansen had finished her shift early at half past four in the morning and been sent home to Atlasvägen in Odinswalla in a taxi by the head nurse. Annoyed at having to drive a visibly sick customer on his very last day of work before leaving this rainy hellhole for three well-deserved weeks in Thailand, the taxi driver had burned rubber as soon as Greta had climbed out and shut the door. Her husband, Finn Hansen, an editor at newspaper Nya Dagbladet, had been sound asleep in their newly renovated and beautifully decorated third-floor flat, unaware that a man was just then shoving a broken bottle into his wife in a shrubbery right next to the building.
The news that the perpetrator has ventured out of socially disadvantaged Moerbeck, expanding his hunting grounds to middle-class Odinswalla has stirred the media into a frenzy.
The condemnation of the police at yesterday’s press conference had been unanimous; the police had clearly deployed the promised uniformed and plainclothes officers in the wrong places. Hadn’t they considered the possibility of the perpetrator changing his hunting grounds? Were the police able to guarantee the public’s safety? What did they have to say to the city’s frightened women? Was Haugen himself happy with the police’s efforts so far? Had he considered resigning? What did the Minister of Home Affairs have to say?
Colleagues are snapping at each other; everyone looks pale and determined, the overtime logged is making HR edgy. Dunker’s police headquarters is seething with frustration that another woman has been attacked, that they don’t have the resources to keep a police presence on every goddamn street, that the bastard’s still on the loose. And on top of all that, the constant fear that it might happen again. Maybe tonight.
The news that an arrest has finally been made in the Langevik case barely makes the papers, but any hint that they might have the wrong guy would set off a media storm. Linus Kvanne simply has to be found guilty. Besides, it’s a crass reality that neither the Dogge
r Police Authority nor the Prosecution Service has the resources for more than one high-profile case at a time.
The truth is Haugen probably welcomed the Moerbeck case as a chance to redeem himself. Exactly what they needed; a clear-cut case, a competent head investigator and some old-fashioned police work. Order would soon be restored.
Karen decides he’s probably not as confident anymore.
But she says nothing. Karen Eiken Hornby is well versed in the art of keeping her thoughts to herself.
*
That doesn’t stop her, however, from looking over at her boss’s office two hours later before reaching for her phone.
‘No, Mum’s not back yet,’ Mette Brinckmann-Grahn tells her, now with a hint of irritation in her voice. ‘How many times are you going to ask?’
‘And you still haven’t heard from her?’
Mette Brinckmann-Grahn heaves a sigh.
‘Like I told you, she called from Bilbao the day before yesterday and said she’d be back as soon as she could find a cheap flight. But, really, I already explained all of this to your colleague.’
Karen curses her lack of Swedish. She must have heard her wrong.
‘What do you mean? Who did you explain it to?’
‘The other police officer who called this morning. Mum’s mobile was ringing and ringing and in the end, I answered; figured it might be important. But she just asked the same questions you are. Wanted to get in touch with Mum and know when she’d be back. Don’t you police people talk to each other?’
*
For a split second, the world is spinning. A female colleague? Could Astrid Nielsen have tried to reach Disa without telling her? No, she’s been transferred to Smeed’s case now and won’t have time for anything else. And Astrid would definitely have informed Karen if for some unknown reason she’d done something like that.
‘This other woman you spoke to, did she really say she worked for the police? I mean, explicitly?’
Mette is quiet for a moment and then says with a tone of genuine surprise:
‘No, now that you mention it, maybe she didn’t. But she introduced herself and sounded very formal. And she sounded a lot like you.’
‘Like me? What do you mean?’
‘Well, she had those thick ls and rs you have. And the same questions, like I said. I probably just assumed she worked for the police.’
Mette Brinckmann-Grahn falls silent again. Then she says:
‘Come to think of it, she might just as well have been British. Or American maybe. Which makes sense with her name, too. Anne Crosby, she said it was.’
‘Anne Crosby. And you’re sure about that?’
‘Of course, I have it written down here with her number and everything. I promised I’d call her as soon as I heard from Mum.’
Karen closes her eyes before asking the next question.
‘And did you? Did you call Anne Crosby and tell her your mum’s on her way home?’
‘Of course! I considered calling you as well, but then I thought one phone call to the police was enough. I figured this Anne Crosby could fill you in. I told her she should.’
Mette Brinckmann only now seems to realise her mistake.
‘Well, I thought . . . I just assumed that . . . Either way, it doesn’t matter,’ she adds in a defiant tone. ‘Mum’s not back yet anyway.’
66
Who the fuck is Anne Crosby? Karen wonders as she gives up after eight rings and throws her phone down on her desk.
Mette Brinckmann-Grahn had, very obligingly and without protest, read out Anne Crosby’s phone number, digit by digit, in both Swedish and English to ensure there was no miscommunication. Karen had dialled the number the moment she hung up. Ten beeps, no answer, no voicemail. After five minutes, she makes another attempt and eight more beeps without a result.
Now she reaches for her mouse and watches as the anxiety-inducing perpetual motion of the screensaver is replaced with the Dogger police logo. It takes her two quick searches to establish that there’s no one by the name of Anne Crosby in the Dogger Republic, but that the number of women called Anne Crosby globally seems infinite. A third search, this time for the phone number. No hits. Probably a pay-as-you-go SIM, she concludes dejectedly.
She stands up to call Karl Björken over, but changes her mind and sinks back into her office chair. Quickly, and with a strange feeling her boss is watching, she opens the Susanne Smeed case file, finds Cornelis Loots’ summary of the technical investigation and scrolls down to the IT department’s findings. Forty-five seconds later, she’s looked from the screen to her mobile phone and back again enough times.
One more attempt, another eight signals without a result. Annoyed, she dials the Connors’ phone number instead and is greeted by Brandon Connor’s voice after four rings:
‘Janet and I have better things to do than answering the phone at the moment. Leave a message and we’ll call you back.’
She does as she’s told.
Another glance over at Smeed; he’s on the phone with someone; judging from his facial expression, it’s not good news.
Smeed and Haugen can go fuck themselves, she thinks, grabs her jacket and walks over to Karl Björken.
‘Lunch? My treat.’
*
Fifteen minutes later, Karl places his knife against the potato he’s stabbed on his fork and removes the thin peel with the help of his thumb. They’ve gone to one of Dunker’s finer lunch establishments, on Parkvej up in Norrebro. Over a mile of reassuring safety distance from the station. This is going to hurt her wallet, Karen realises.
‘Last kelpis of the year,’ Karl says, reverently admiring the unremarkable root. ‘Expensive, but worth every shilling, if you ask me.’
‘The first of the year are better,’ Karen retorts, wriggling out of her jacket. ‘But either way, they don’t taste like they used to. It’s all industrialised nowadays; giant lorries full of some green algae mush they spray on the fields. I wish you could have tasted the ones my grandfather grew up on Noorö. Nothing but bladderwrack, straight in the cliff crevices.
‘Any kelpis is better than none,’ Karl says, fishing another potato out of the bowl and placing it next to a hunk of turbot as thick as a finger. ‘Can’t blame me for seizing the opportunity when someone else is paying. Can I ask why the sudden generosity, by the way? Did you get lucky at the track or something?’
‘I figured it was the quickest way to get you alone,’ she says dourly. ‘You’re hardly the type to ask questions when someone waves their chequebook around, are you?’
Karl smiles smugly and shoves half a potato topped with a sizeable piece of turbot and melted butter into his mouth.
‘Smeed wouldn’t be best pleased if he found out I’m taking a long lunch,’ he says between bites. ‘I’m supposed to be working on his case, not sitting here with you. I was just reading up on that shit when you came thundering over. It’s bloody grim reading, I can tell you that.’
‘Good, then you need a break. A friendly lunch, just two colleagues talking. What could he have against that?’
‘Come off it, Eiken; you would never buy me lunch unless you were after something. Just tell me what this is about.’
Karen quickly looks around the full room and leans forward.
‘I called Mette Brinckmann-Grahn again,’ she says.
‘I thought you were supposed to focus on Kvanne? Keep your thoughts to yourself and not cause trouble.’
Karen continues without comment:
‘I just wanted to check if she’d heard from her mother. Disa said she was going to be back this week.’
‘All right. So had she? Heard from her mother, I mean?’
‘Yes, apparently she’s finally on her way home. But she told me I wasn’t the only person trying to reach Disa Brinckmann.’
‘I should certainly hope the Dogger Police Authority isn’t the old woman’s only point of contact with the world.’
Karen ignores his sarcastic tone.
‘Your food’s getting cold,’ Karl says, nodding at the untouched lamb cutlets on Karen’s plate.
She dutifully cuts off a piece and pops it into her mouth. Chews and waits for Karl to lob back the ball she’s served at him.
‘All right,’ he says after a while. ‘Anne Crosby, you say. And who’s that?’
‘Yeah, I’m wondering the same thing. I’ve tried to call, but no one picks up.’
‘Exciting. Really. A woman we don’t know has called someone who probably has nothing to do with the investigation.’
Karl Björken shoots her a sceptical look over his glass as he sips his beer. Without taking her eyes off his, Karen bends to the side, fumbles around in her handbag on the floor and pulls out a piece of paper. Without a word, she unfolds it and places it next to Karl’s plate.
‘Well,’ he says, after skimming the information on it. ‘It made no difference in the Smeed case, but you have to give it to him, Cornelis Loots is meticulous. I hope he’s as thorough with the Moerbeck information. We’re going to need it if we want any chance of catching that bastard.’
Karl turns his attention back to his plate.
Without comment, Karen puts her phone down on the other side of his plate. The screen shows the most recently dialled number.
Karl Björken has stopped chewing. Then he leans back in his chair and meets her eyes.
‘Damn,’ he says. ‘So the mystery of the unknown pay-as-you-go SIM has been solved. What are you going to do now?’
‘Don’t know. But I have to follow up somehow. First, this Anne Crosby calls Susanne twice in June and again on 27 September. Just two days before she was killed. And now she’s trying to reach Disa Brinckmann. Her trying to contact two people connected to the case can hardly be a coincidence.’
Fatal Isles Page 33
