‘The latter, I’m afraid. The studio’s really busy at the moment; we have people there around the clock, so he has to steer clear for a while. The others wouldn’t like it if they know I let him borrow my keys. The equipment alone is worth millions.’
‘Sure, great, better he steals what little I have . . .’
‘Cut it out. Leo’s not a thief; besides, do you have a better solution?’
*
Now she’s studying the man before her with a mix of fascination and revulsion. His coat was probably nice-looking once upon a time – it might even have been his – and his boots look suspiciously new. But the headlights reveal that the red jumper underneath the coat is full of stains – she doesn’t want to know where they came from – and the sleeves poking out are grey with ingrained dirt. The yarn at the bottom of one sleeve is fraying; a safety pin has been clumsily inserted through the stitches keep to them from running. The good news is the grey blanket Leo Friis wore wrapped around his shoulders the first time they met is nowhere to be seen, but his hat and the socks peeking out of his boots are probably teeming with vermin. There’s probably no part of him that’s not teeming with vermin, she reflects gloomily.
He should be grateful. Should jump at a chance to get food and shelter for three weeks without having to do much in return. Instead, I’m standing here like some kind of bloody door-to-door salesman, trying to persuade him. Who the fuck does he think he is?
At the same time, Karen realises she’s probably more desperate for his help than he is for hers.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the cat,’ she says. ‘He’s just slightly high maintenance.’
‘Are you sure it’s not a female?’
Leo scratches his eyebrows, pushing his hat up his forehead in the process.
‘Ah, a homeless man with a sense of humour,’ Karen snaps. ‘Do you have fleas or something? That hat looks like it might crawl away of its own volition.’
‘How the fuck should I know? Do you have a tub?’
‘Of course.’
‘All right.’
‘All right what?’
‘All right, I’ll housesit for you, look after your cat and make sure no one breaks in, while you head down to Costa del Sol to guzzle sangria.’
‘To a vineyard in France. I actually own a share of it.’
‘Bully for you.’
Leo clears his throat, getting ready to spit. Karen watches in disgust as he turns his head and hawks a loogy over the edge of the pier.
‘I have one condition,’ she says. ‘You won’t bring home any dodgy friends, and you won’t do any drugs while you’re living under my roof. Not even weed. You can drink if you want, but nothing else.’
‘I knew it. There’s always a catch . . .’
‘I’m a police detective; I can’t risk you doing that shit at my house. I mean it. Does that sound doable?’
‘Look, I’ve got by on beer and crappy red wine for almost two years. Do you have any drink at your house, by the way?’
‘Probably nothing you’d like. Just decent wine and good whiskey. And a freezer full of food, a TV and a guestroom with clean sheets,’ she adds, to take the edge off the snark.
‘And where is this paradise?’
‘Langevik, north-east of town.’
‘I know where it is. But how do I get there? As you might have gathered, I don’t own a car.’
Karen’s silent for a few moments, doing quick some quick mental calculations. Twenty-three hours until the ferry departs. She’s hardly going to have time to drive around town looking for Leo Friis tomorrow, and she doesn’t trust him to make it to Langevik on his own, even if she were to give him money for a taxi.
‘By car,’ she says. ‘We’re leaving right now. Unless you have something else going on,’ she adds.
77
The noise from upstairs has subsided. The alternating rush of the tap and gurgle of the drain as dirty water has repeatedly been let out and replaced with clean has, after more than an hour, finally stopped.
‘Do you reckon he’s gone to bed?’ Sigrid asks, absently tinkling her spoon against her teacup while she scrolls up and down on her phone with the thumb of her other hand. ‘Maybe he’s drowning in the tub? I’ve heard that happens,’ she continues, tearing her eyes away from the phone for a brief moment. ‘Maybe we should check on him.’
‘I think Leo can take care of himself,’ Karen says sourly and pushes Rufus, who has jumped up onto a kitchen chair and put his front paws on the table, down onto the floor. ‘If you’re done with the cheese, I’ll put it back in the fridge.’
She gets up to clear the table. It’s covered in crumbs from the walnut loaf of which nothing but a sad heel remains. Leo must have scarfed down at least eight slices; she opens the freezer to pull out a new loaf. If he carries on at this pace, I won’t have a scrap of food left in the house when I get back.
‘He’s probably pretty good-looking underneath that beard. He looks well fit in old pictures online. Check it out!’
Karen turns around and looks at Sigrid who is enthusiastically holding her phone out. Without looking at it, Karen shakes her head.
‘He’s at least twenty years older than you,’ she says disapprovingly.
Sigrid sighs and gets up.
‘God, do you honestly think I’d be interested in some old fossil? I was thinking of you.’
‘Thanks. But that old fossil is probably ten years younger than me.’
‘Eight, actually. I checked.’
Karen lets that pass without comment.
‘Have you packed?’ she asks instead.
‘I will. Soon. Calm down, why are you so wound up?’
Because for some reason, instead of being on my own, enjoying some peace and quiet, I have a pierced lass with tattoos all over her arms at my kitchen table and a homeless man in my upstairs bathroom, Karen retorts inwardly. Out loud, she says:
‘Would you mind fetching clean sheets and putting them in the guesthouse? Turn on the radiator, too, if it’s off; I forgot to check.’
‘So I’m out now? You want to be alone with Mr Beard?’
Sigrid grins broadly and manages to cock just one eyebrow; for a split second, Karen can clearly see her father in her.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she snaps. ‘Leo will sleep out there tonight; after we leave, he can move in here if he wants. I want him quarantined until we know he’s rabies-free.’
The gurgling starts again upstairs, but this time, it’s not followed by the sound of the tap. Instead, they hear footsteps crossing the bathroom floor, a door opening and loud creaking. Next, Leo Friis appears in the kitchen door, wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his hips. Karen looks away. Sigrid doesn’t.
‘Did you shave with a blender?’ she says.
‘I found nail scissors. Do you have any clothes I can borrow? I think mine need to be washed.’
More like burned, Karen observes.
‘Sigrid, can you show Leo the washing machine and have a look in the wardrobes for something that might fit him? I have to make a phone call.’
Karl Björken picks up immediately.
‘Hiya, Eiken, what are you up to now?’
‘Nothing, actually. I’m in holiday mode. I’m taking the evening ferry out of here tomorrow and won’t be back for three weeks. When are you off, by the way? For your parental leave, I mean.’
‘Probably not until the first of December, so you’ll be back before I go.’
If I come back, she thinks. At the moment, returning to work with Jounas Smeed and Evald Johannisen feels less tempting than ever.
‘I just wanted to let you know I talked to Anne Crosby yesterday.’
‘Oh, so she finally called you back. What did she have to say for herself?’
‘Not much. She sounded very subdued.’
‘What about Disa Brinckmann; have you reached her?’
‘Not yet. But she should be back by now, so I’m going to try to give her a ring. I d
on’t feel right about leaving loose ends, you know. About not explaining why I’ve been trying to get hold of them, I mean, even if it’s redundant now.’
‘I thought you were on leave. On holiday mode, isn’t that what you just told me?’
‘I am, but I promised Anne Crosby we would keep her posted on the case against Kvanne. After all, it is her sister, even if we have no official confirmation of their blood ties. So, I really just wanted to ask you to give me a call if anything happens.’
Even though it’s patently impossible, she can clearly hear Karl Björken smiling on the other end.
‘So it’s not that you want to know yourself?’
Karen sighs resignedly.
‘Fine,’ she admits. ‘I just feel really weird about dropping everything.’
‘You know what they say about cats and curiosity . . .’
‘Are you going to call me or not? If he confesses, I mean.’
‘Sure. But do try to actually enter holiday mode for real now.’
‘I promise. I’m probably not going to give any of it a second’s thought once I’m down there, surrounded by mountains of grapes.
When Karen forces her suitcase shut and zips it, she catches herself humming an old nursery rhyme.
‘Don’t go sniffing everything
Said the old man that saved the cat
Next time, you’ll have to save yourself
Or drown in the deep water.’
78
Right, I guess I’m on my own then, Karen thinks to herself as she watches Sigrid disappear in the direction of the lower-deck bar.
Sigrid had spotted some friends of hers in one of the cars ahead of them before they even got on the ferry. After making sure Karen wouldn’t be offended, she’d jumped out and hurried over to the other car, tapped on the window and been let in immediately.
‘I’ll see you on board in a while,’ she’d said. ‘Which cabin are we in, again?’
Karen had handed her one of the white plastic cards stamped with the number 121.
‘I think I’m going to hit the hay early. Don’t wake me when you stagger in, please. I need my sleep so I can drive all the way down to Strasbourg tomorrow.’
‘You won’t even know I’m there,’ Sigrid had assured her. Looks like she was right. Karen is suddenly overcome with worry. Is this just the first of many times Sigrid will be out of her sight this trip? What if something happens to her? Or she decides to take up with one of the blokes travelling around the various farms to help with the harvest? They have been known to be gratuitously good-looking. How would she explain something like that to Jounas Smeed? True, Sigrid is an adult, but bringing her along is still an immense responsibility.
And while she’s worrying about that anyway, she takes the opportunity to fret about the situation at home as well. Leo Friis, surrounded by empty bottles and lines of cocaine, Rufus desperately padding around his food bowl. What had she been thinking?
Her agonising is interrupted by a car horn. The vehicles in front of her have started moving, disappearing in under MS Skandia’s open bow visor, one after the other.
*
Karen has taken a seat in one of the leather armchairs in the small upper-deck bar. She notes with disappointment that there are no ashtrays on the tables anymore. Surely this particular bar used to be exempt from the smoking ban?
‘Is there anywhere I can smoke on board?’ she asks the waiter, who is placing a tiny napkin on her table and setting a gin and tonic down on top of it.
‘I’m afraid not. Not for the last five years. Well, it’s allowed outside, obviously,’ he replies, taking the card she holds out.
Karen glances over at the window. They departed on time and have already left all lights behind. A few droplets of rain on the glass quells her urge to smoke. Besides, she has already felt that familiar rolling that indicates an agitated North Sea. The waiter, sensing her apprehension, confirms her suspicions with a practised smile aimed at calming anxious passengers.
‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘We’re looking at slightly rough seas tonight, but there is absolutely no need for concern. We wouldn’t have left port if there was any danger.’
Karen shoots him an amused look. Their respective definitions of ‘slightly rough’ probably differ considerably.
‘So there’s a storm coming,’ she says calmly.
‘They’re saying Doggerland’s going to be hit hard, but we should make it over before it reaches the Danish coast. That being said’ – he cautions with a glance at the glass in front of her – ‘if you’re prone to seasickness, you might want to take it easy.’
Karen smiles and shakes her head.
‘No, I’ve thankfully never been seasick. I’ve been told it’s agony.’
The waiter takes back the card reader, prints the receipt and crumples it up in his palm when she declines it with a wave of her hand.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I’ve heard people say they want to die when it gets really bad. But I don’t think it’s necessarily going to get that bad tonight,’ he adds and leaves her with a smile.
The distant sound of a Lady Gaga song seeps into the peaceful upper-deck bar from the lower deck when the glass door to the stairwell opens to admit an older couple. Just as they cross the threshold, the boat pitches. The woman misses her step and looks mortified. With one hand firmly clutching on the gold chain strap of her handbag and the other on her husband’s arm, she moves further into the room. Karen turns her head to watch as the two of them sit down at one of the small tables.
The main bar’s probably packed by now, but here, the higher prices have scared away all but twenty or so guests. The waiter is just now serving another well-dressed, middle-aged couple a dry martini and a double whiskey. Three older women seem to be sharing a bottle of white wine. Beyond them, Karen can see two men in suits nursing cognacs and above the back of a green chesterfield armchair, she can make out the head and shoulders of a woman who seems to be searching her handbag for something. Despite her lack of fashion knowledge, Karen can tell her handbag must be expensive. Something flashes in the woman’s hand; Karen realises she was looking for a small mirror, which she’s now holding up to her face. She’s probably refreshing her lipstick.
Well, she’s unlikely to get picked up in this bar, Karen considers and takes a sip of her G&T. This is a refuge for people who chose the ferry over air travel but who can’t bear the racket of the main bar. For people who are afraid of flying or who are bringing their cars. Or for those of us who are simply getting to be too old. Downstairs is for the people who consider the ferries from Dunker and Ravenby destinations in their own right, and who couldn’t care less if they’re going to Esbjerg or Harwich. For people who are drawn by tax-free prices, gambling machines and a chance to get laid. And for young people who are compelled by the lax enforcements of government age restrictions in the onboard bars.
It was a long time ago, but Karen remembers what it was like.
Maybe I should give Sigrid a ring after all, she ponders. Just a quick call to make sure she’s not seasick. Or too drunk.
Karen glances at her watch: only 11.36 p.m. Surely Sigrid would have called if something had happened. Unless she’s drugged in some cabin and . . .
‘Cut it out,’ she tells herself.
One of the middle-aged women turns to look at Karen, who realises she must have spoken out loud. She has noticed that she has started talking to herself quite a bit recently. Rufus normally provides good cover, but here, sitting alone on a North Sea ferry, talking to no one at all might have an unsettling effect on the people around her.
Time for bed, she decides. I should get at least a few hours of sleep before it’s time to get back behind the wheel. She knocks back what’s left in her glass and gets up. Takes a quick step to the side as the ship lurches and smiles, embarrassed, at the other patrons. No one seems to have noticed. The woman who was digging through her handbag earlier half turns her head toward Karen, but immediately turns away
again.
79
Evald Johannisen gives his wife an inquiring look. She has turned on her bedside lamp and sunk back into her pillows with a dejected look on her face and the phone pressed to her ear. Now she mouths something to her husband while showing with her free hand that the person on the other end is rambling on and on.
Evald glances at the clock radio, where the red digits glow like a jeering reminder of his long-since vanished youth and vigour: 10.47 p.m.
It’s Saturday night and not even eleven, yet both he and Ragna had been asleep.
On the other hand, he thinks, annoyed, who the fuck calls at this hour?
Then he suddenly manages to decipher Ragna’s mouthing: ‘Cousin Hasse.’
‘No, don’t be silly, of course we’re not in bed this early,’ she says with a glance at her husband. ‘Oh no, much better. Yes, he’s sitting right next to me, so you can talk to him yourself. Of course it’s fine. My love to Eva. Yes, we really should. You too. Here’s Evald now.’
With a crestfallen look at his wife, Evald Johannisen accepts the receiver from her and pushes himself up into a slumped version of sitting. His conversations with his Swedish cousin tend not only to be tedious but to make him feel inferior as well. Maybe because Hasse – who works for the Swedish Police Authority – has a habit of working in some reference to the fact that he has managed to advance further than Evald, even though there’s considerably less competition in Doggerland. Or maybe it’s simply the little-brother complex all islanders feel with respect to their much larger eastern neighbour.
But this time, his cousin Hans Kollind, Deputy Regional Chief of Police for Region South, proves uncharacteristically succinct. After just a few brief courtesies about Eva’s health and a forced assurance from Evald that he will take it easy, Hasse seems ready to move on to the real reason he called.
‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘that we have a bit of a strange case here in Malmö. And I was wondering if you could help us. I didn’t want to call just anybody at this hour.’
Right, but bothering me is just fine, Evald thinks to himself, even though he can already feel his reflexive irritation turning into curiosity.
Fatal Isles Page 37
