‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Johannisen grumbles, ‘but someone broke into Disa Brinckmann’s flat and killed her.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Hasse called from Sweden. Apparently, she was thrown headfirst into a door and then suffocated while she was unconscious, for good measure. But the Swedish Police have neither motive nor witnesses.’
Karl is aware Johannisen’s cousin Hasse Kollind holds a fairly senior position within the Swedish Police, but he also knows they don’t normally call each other to talk shop. At least not if Johannisen has anything to say about it. And as though he can read his colleague’s mind, Johannisen continues.
‘But Disa Brinckmann’s daughter apparently told the Swedes someone from the Doggerland Police has been trying to get hold of her mother. And it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who. Goddamn it, Eiken was bloody right.’
Karl realises what it must cost his colleague to admit Karen was onto something everyone else had dismissed out of hand. And yet, here he is, at work, in the middle of the night.
‘And you’re telling me Karen’s not answering her phone. Do we even know if she’s on the ferry? Maybe she took an earlier one and is already in France.’
Johannisen turns his computer screen and pushes his chair back.
‘She’s on the passenger list.’
Karl looks at the alphabetised Excel sheet.
Edmund, Timothy
Edgerman, Jan
Egerman, Charlotte
Eiken Hornby, Karen
He frowns. And before gut feeling has a chance to turn to conscious thought, he instinctively reaches for the mouse and scrolls up the list. He holds his breath while his eyes scan the names of the passengers.
Cedervall, Marie
Cedervall, Gunnar
Clasie, Jaan
Crawford, David
Davidsen, William
Then he lets the air out in a sigh of relief.
‘At least there’s no Anne Crosby on board,’ he says.
Johannisen is right; there has to be a connection, just like Karen suspected, but they don’t have to reach her tonight. She’s probably asleep anyway, he thinks to himself. She’s turned the sound off now that she’s finally off work.
Karl Björken feels the adrenaline subsiding and his heart rate slowing and starts to get up. Just as he gets to his feet, he hears Evald Johannisen’s voice behind him.
‘God-fucking-damnit.’
85
Karen struggles a little with the door to the aft deck. The wind has picked up and the air is raw with impending rain. It’s probably going to start pouring down any second, but she should have enough time to smoke a cigarette before the skies open. Two plastic chairs lie toppled onto their sides next to a round table and a handful of plastic cups role forlornly back and forth across the deck, but there’s not a soul in sight. Apparently, she’s the only one desperate enough to brave the chill, or maybe all the other smokers are huddled somewhere else. There must be a better spot than this.
She sets her course for some white life-vest storage bins crammed in under a protruding roof some way down the leeward deck. Just half a cigarette, she tells herself, then I’m off to bed. She keeps a safe distance between herself and the railing as she moves toward the storage bins; a sudden gust of wind buffets her. Facing in toward the wall, she pulls out cigarettes and lighter with fingers that already feel clumsy with cold. Her thumb keeps slipping; it takes her four attempts to light her cigarette. She closes her eyes and takes a deep drag.
I have to stop her, she thinks, once again imagining her mother’s face if she were to get to the house and discover Leo Friis. Potentially, in a worst-case scenario, surrounded by empty bottles and joints.
*
Karen’s still not sure if her mum’s desire to emigrate had been caused by her own return to the island, or if her moving back to her childhood home had simply given Eleanor Eiken a reason to let go of the old stone house. She’d held off for a year after Karen moved back before judging that her daughter was capable of getting by on her own. A year surprisingly free of conflicts, possibly because Karen had quickly moved out to the guesthouse. Two widows in one house was, after all, one too many.
Eleanor, for her part, had claimed she and Karen’s father had always dreamt of moving to warmer climes the moment they retired. Now she was going to have to do it on her own.
‘And I know the house is in good hands,’ she’d said.
She’s probably going to change her mind about that, unless I can get through to her tomorrow morning, Karen ponders. I’ll be lucky to get a few hours of sleep at this rate, she laments inwardly and feels a yawn tickle her jaw. Suddenly, she realises the stress of her mother’s message has made her forget something. There had been another voicemail on her phone. Probably just an apology from the police chief inspector for calling her in error, but she has to check it regardless. She briefly contemplates listening it to it immediately, but then decides to finish her cigarette and wait until she’s back inside. Karen turns her head and watches the light streaming out through the windows further down the deck and is suddenly overcome with an almost unbearable tiredness. She takes one last deep drag and flicks away the cigarette. Watches the glow go out the moment it hits the deck.
Just then, she’s shoved hard from behind. The force of it throws her head first into the railing.
86
Karl Björken spots it the moment Evald Johannisen lets out his curse. True, there’s no Anne Crosby on the passenger list. But at the top of the Excel sheet they’re now staring at are the last names under the letter B.
Bok, Anders
Bosscha, Ruud
Besscha, Marianne
Brinckmann, Disa
For a few moments, there is complete silence.
‘How the fuck . . .’ Evald Johannisen says, but Karl Björken is already standing at his own desk with his hand on the phone. They exchange a look and a nod. Then they get to work.
*
Karl Björken has to admit he’s never felt more helpless in his life. At least not since Ingrid gave birth to the children.
By now, he and Johannisen have done everything they can. Without needing to coordinate, they’ve made the calls that need to be made, noting what the other has already taken care of before proceeding to the next step. Together, they’ve run down the list of possible and impossible interventions. They’ve contacted the police chief inspector, who has sent out a major alert. They’ve talked to the head of the Coastguard’s helicopter fleet in Framnes, who informed them the weather is too rough to head out. The police’s helicopter squad gave them the same answer. There are strong winds where the ferry is, but that’s not the problem. The wind along the east coast of Doggerland has reach gale force and the visibility is much too poor for a helicopter to take off.
They’ve spoken to the shipping company’s head of security, who promised to inform the captain immediately and call them back. It’s been confirmed that a woman who according to her passport is called Disa Brinckmann holds a return ticket from Esbjerg to Dunker and that the ferry is right on the border between Doggerian and Danish territorial waters.
They’ve woken up Viggo Haugen, who for once listened without objection and promised to contact the Danish police immediately. They’ve informed Jounas Smeed, who is on his way in. Now, their only hope is that the Danish coastguard are able to send someone out. Or that the crew on board the ferry can locate Karen.
It’s a big ship, Karl thinks darkly.
He puts his head in his hands and tries to think. Is there really nothing more they can do? Just then, Johannisen curses again.
‘Karl, get yourself over here.’
Without getting out of his chair, Karl Björken rolls over to his colleague’s desk and watches him jab a chubby finger at the passenger list on the screen.
‘Look,’ he says. ‘Apparently everyone’s on that bloody ferry. I wonder how Jounas is going to react when he finds out
his little girl’s on board?’
87
Her first sensation is cold. A freezing wet cold that makes her aware she’s alive. Then a sliver of light that cuts through the blackness, producing a searing pain in her head.
Karen doesn’t understand why she’s slumped on a hard floor in the dark and cold, with her head and shoulders against an ice-cold wall. I must be outside, she thinks, noting with surprise the rain pattering against her face. The wind is roaring around her and she can hear a rhythmical, thumping sound. Then she remembers.
Instinctively, she tries to get up and hears a scream. Still only half-conscious, she’s astonished to realise the sound is coming from her, that it’s rising out of her only to be snatched away by the wind. Her eyes dart helplessly back and forth in the faint light from lanterns and windows, then stop to focus on a spot three feet in front of her. Only now does she realise; her left leg is sticking out at a horrifying angle between herself and the railing. She can’t move.
That’s when she notices the woman.
‘Please, help me . . .’
Karen breaks off abruptly. This time, the sudden insight is so powerful she’s immediately wide awake. The woman standing next to the wall of the ship, bent over, panting with exertion, watching Karen, has no intention of helping her. She’s catching her breath before finishing what she started.
And through the rain, in the faint light from the lantern above the life vest bins, Karen recognises her. It’s the woman with the expensive handbag, who dug around for a mirror to top up her lipstick, the woman who stood by herself, staring at the gambling machines. Now she straightens up and her eyes are so filled with hate Karen lets out an involuntary gasp.
*
There’s something familiar about her features and the expensive hairdo that’s now clinging wetly to her pale face. Something that’s not right, that can’t be true. A thought slowly gnaws its way into Karen’s awareness, looking for a foothold. And she doesn’t know if she says it out loud or if she just thinks it.
‘You look exactly alike . . .’
She screams when the woman takes a first step toward her.
The sound is swallowed by the monotonous thudding of the ship’s engines and the menacing growl of the wind around ladders and lifeboats. Terrified, Karen flails her arms about to protect herself, striking out blindly, weakly, against the body leaning over her. She fights to keep screaming when the woman grabs her arms and tries to pull her up. This time, the pain is so intense she vomits. The retching send jolts of pain through her chest and something inside her gives up. Sluggishly, as though it has nothing to do with her, she notes that at least a couple of ribs on her right side are broken.
The woman instinctively lets go and takes a step back. She stares at the vomit slowly sliding down the lapels of her suit jacket with surprise that quickly turns into revulsion.
Far away, Karen hears a door open; the din and music from inside grows louder for a second before the door closes again.
No one’s going to brave this weather, no one’s going to risk getting soaked and chilled to the bone for a cigarette. No one’s going to see or hear her, even though there’s nothing but a thin wall between her and the hundreds of dancing, laughing people inside. No one has any idea what’s happening.
Gagging involuntarily again, Karen tries to turn her head to the side to avoid choking on her own vomit. The music grows louder again when another door opens. Behind her this time, further down the deck. She tries to scream, but can’t get anything out before the sound from inside fades again as the door closes. I’m not going to make it, she thinks, staring at the woman in front of her.
Anne Crosby is going to kill me too.
Then she hears footsteps approaching and the woman in front of her backs up against the wall again. They’re no longer alone.
A wave of gratitude washes over Karen; someone has come outside, someone’s going to help her.
And then a voice, so familiar Karen’s overcome with fear so intense it makes blood rush to her head. The sound of Sigrid’s voice behind her.
‘Karen, is that you? Didn’t you hear them call . . .’
She breaks off suddenly and Karen knows Sigrid must now be close enough to realise something’s not right.
‘Sigrid, don’t come over here,’ she tries to shout, but she’s too weak; her feeble voice is drowned out by the wind.
She tries again. Desperately presses her hand against her broken ribs and yells.
‘Go inside and get help. Get out of here, Sigrid!’
But Sigrid doesn’t go inside. Instead, she continues to move forward, entering Karen’s field of vision.
‘Oh my God, Karen, what happened?’
‘Please, Sigrid, get out of here, you have to go and get help. She’s dangerous.’
She mouths the last part, frantically trying to point with her eyes at the woman, who has now withdrawn into the shadows. The woman Sigrid still hasn’t spotted.
Sigrid follows her gaze toward the wall of the ship. Karen sees her startle and grab the railing to keep upright. And then she watches helplessly as Sigrid, instead of turning around to go get help, takes a few slow steps toward the woman.
Anne Crosby is standing motionless, frozen, her arms dangling limply at her sides.
Sigrid’s long, jet black hair whips in the wind, covering her face like a veil. She pushes it aside with both hands and stops a few feet from Anne Crosby. For a few seconds, they stand dead still, staring at each other. And only now does it dawn on Karen what Sigrid must be thinking. Now, when the previously elegant woman’s well-coiffed hair is wet and lanky, when the dim light of the lanterns makes it impossible to tell her apart from Susanne Smeed.
It’s not her! she wants to scream. She just looks like her. Get out of here; this is the woman who killed your mother. Her name is Anne Crosby, she’s your aunt.
But she can’t get a word out.
She had meant to tell Sigrid about her aunt. Once they were in France, when the time was right. She’d reckoned Sigrid would be happy. That it might help both her and Anne to deal with Susanne being gone. Now, all she wants to do is to bellow at Sigrid to get out of there. But her body is failing, there’s not enough air. The pain is too overwhelming.
And for a moment that stretches into an eternity, Karen watches Sigrid’s face change. Watches as emotions ruthlessly rush through her. Watches doubt turn into a split second of happiness before reality catches up again. An unfathomable reality.
Karen can’t hear it, only sees Sigrid’s lips move, forming a single word.
‘Mummy?’
*
Something inside her breaks. She wants to jump up, fold Sigrid into her arms and protect her from this experience. Tell her it’s just a bad dream. But all she can do is muster her last ounce of strength, defy the pain and shout as loudly as she can.
‘It’s not her, Sigrid,’ she roars. ‘It’s not your mother.’
Maybe Sigrid hears her, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she doesn’t care what Karen’s trying to say, maybe she doesn’t believe her. And now the woman’s eyes start to dart back and forth between her and Sigrid, as if she’s trying to make sense of things, too, and slowly, as she looks at Karen, the rage that had momentarily abated reawakens. She quickly walks up to Sigrid and embraces the rigid girl. Holds her tight with her hate-filled eyes still fixed on Karen.
And yet it’s only when the woman opens her mouth that Karen realises how wrong she’s been.
‘Yes, Karen,’ the woman says, ‘I am her mother. Nothing you do can change that.’
*
Karen’s mind is reeling and can find nothing to hold onto. Pictures of Susanne Smeed’s dead body on the kitchen floor. The still so familiar features behind the grotesquely smashed-in face. The open dressing gown, the silicon breast peeking out, the well-manicured hands, the glossiness of her hair where it wasn’t covered in blood. Karen had seen and noted all those things. Found some of them surprising, but accepted what s
he saw without question. The memory of Kneought Brodal’s anguish at having to examine the body of a woman he’d known and socialised with once upon a time. The DNA results that had confirmed what he and everyone else already knew. That the dead woman was Susanne Smeed.
All their efforts had been focused on finding the killer. No one had questioned who the victim was.
And while the truth slowly sinks in, Karen hears the woman who is not Anne Crosby say:
‘I’m sorry, Sigrid. I didn’t mean for you to find out. You were supposed to think I was dead.’
Sigrid emits a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a howl. She wrenches free and takes a few staggering steps backwards. Slips, but regains her balance.
‘What the fuck have you done?’ she screams. ‘Then who was murdered?’
And Susanne Smeed looks genuinely surprised, cocking her head and studying her daughter with a troubled expression, as though she doesn’t quite understand the question.
‘My sister, of course.’
Sigrid’s eyes are wide with horror. Her mother doesn’t have a sister. Does she?
‘I didn’t know about her either. At first, I was happy. Before I realised how messed up everything was. I had to kill her. You weren’t supposed to find out until years from now, when I’m dead. Why are you here? What are you doing here with her?’
Her eyes wander back and forth between Sigrid and Karen with a mix of hatred and confusion; Sigrid has thwarted her plans by turning up. Horrified, Karen realises Susanne’s desperation might drive her to do just about anything right now; killing her will no longer be enough. But is Susanne crazy enough to kill her own daughter?
Sigrid stares at the woman in front of her. The face that is etched into her being. Her mother, whom she has loved and hated. Sees the madness she might have sensed lurking beneath the surface all along, the madness that frightened her more than she dared to admit, even to herself.
Fatal Isles Page 39
