The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  “So you visited the Karlsens this morning? They were happy to see their granddaughter, yes?”

  My cheeks flushed. “I did visit, but I . . . didn’t mention who I was.”

  His eyebrows went up in an unspoken question.

  “I was caught off guard and said I was a journalist.”

  He leaned back on his chair, folding his arms. With his reddish hair and sharp nose, he reminded me suddenly of a fox.

  “But they are your grandparents – did they not recognise you?”

  “We’ve never met.”

  “They never visited you? In all this time? No photos even?”

  “No. There’s never been any contact. My dad said it was too sad for them. Maybe it was too sad for him too – easier to cut off all contact. Actually – that’s something I wondered about. My dad and I aren’t mentioned in any of the articles about the case. Do you know why that is?”

  He frowned and opened the file, leafing through pages of lined paper and typewritten reports.

  “I did see something about that . . . yes, here it is.” He read for a moment, then looked up. “Your grandparents requested that you and your father be kept out of all press conferences and statements. The newspapers never knew about you, and the police respected their wishes. Your grandparents didn’t want the media to intrude on your father’s grief.”

  As I left the police station ten minutes later that was the part I couldn’t get out of my head. Dina and Erik had worried so much about intruding on our grief, but never considered we might actually welcome contact – not from the media, but from them, our only link to Hanne. And walking the short journey back to the hostel, I couldn’t shake the sense that something about that side of the story just didn’t add up.

  CHAPTER 34

  On Tuesday morning, I walked back to Damtoften to speak to Asta again. I wondered if she’d be at college or work or whatever she normally did, but there she was, sitting on the porch, smoking a cigarette. As I waved in at her from the road, a car pulled up and a tall woman in her late forties got out. Her skin was sallower than Asta’s and her wavy, shoulder-length hair a much lighter brown, but the family resemblance was clear. Asta stubbed her cigarette and kicked the butt into the grass, with an air of what looked like forced nonchalance. The woman glanced at me, and walked up the driveway, carrying a bag of groceries. She sniffed the air around Asta and said something in Danish, then let herself into the house.

  Asta stood up and beckoned me in.

  “My mother,” she said, leading me through to the kitchen, where the woman was unpacking groceries.

  “Mor, this is Marianne,” she said in English. “She’s the Karlsens’ granddaughter.”

  Asta’s mother turned, her mouth a perfect O.

  “They have a granddaughter?” Her English was more accented than her daughter’s, but only just. I could see her trying to work out who I was. “Hanne was your mother?”

  I nodded.

  “Åh Gud,” she said, pulling out a chair and gesturing for me to sit.

  Asta sat too.

  “I am Rikke. So pleased to meet you. You are not Danish?”

  “No, I’m Irish. Hanne went to Ireland and married my dad and had me, but nobody here seems to know about us.”

  She stared for a moment, perhaps trying to see a resemblance.

  “You look a little like her. I notice it now that I know you’re her daughter. She was very beautiful.”

  “You knew her?”

  She nodded. “My goodness, poor Hanne,” she said, leaning against the counter. “Her parents never recovered. No parent could.” She shook her head. “I cannot believe Dina never told me about you! Have you visited before?”

  “No, never.”

  “Dina and Erik must be so pleased to have you here. Your visit will be good for them.” She nodded, as though confirming something for herself. “They need it.”

  My face started to feel warm. “I haven’t told them who I am. I bumped into Dina yesterday morning and said my name was Linda, and I was writing an article about Hanne.” The words came out in a rush and telling it a third time it sounded even more foolish.

  Rikke sat beside me and patted my arm.

  “It’s a big thing to tell. You will do it when you’re ready. And it will help them, to have the child of Hanne in their lives.”

  “Could you tell me a little about her – about Hanne?”

  “Oh yes! She was bright, so smart. Kind. Funny. I suppose you might say restless. She went to America when she finished school, and then Ireland after university – you know that of course. It was such a horrible shock for us all when . . . when it happened. Asta’s older brother was a baby, and Asta was not born. I remember wondering if we should move to another street, sell this house.”

  Asta looked up. “I didn’t know that!”

  Her mother nodded. “We did not consider it in a real way but for a long time we felt uncomfortable here. When we found out it was a – what is that term – serial killer, it was a strange relief. Because it was not someone from here, and we were in no greater danger than anyone else. I don’t know if that makes sense? Maybe you have to be a parent to understand how much I think about things like this.”

  I nodded. “I get it. My dad was quite protective when I was young. I was never left alone.”

  “Your father – of course he would be worrying,” Rikke said. “I can see that. What does he feel about your visit here?”

  “Ah.” The words got stuck for a moment. “He died unfortunately, so now it’s just me.” Clearing my throat, I changed the subject. “I was at the police station yesterday, speaking to an inspector who’s involved in reopening the cases from back then. He said there were reports of two different men in the area, around the time she disappeared, or shortly before.” I looked over at Asta. “And I think you mentioned them too?”

  She nodded.

  I turned back to her mother. “Do you remember anything about them?”

  “Oh yes. One blond, one dark-haired.”

  It was exactly what Asta had said, and Vicepolitiinspektør Nielsen too. Were they all repeating a story that had been told over and over, taking it as gospel?

  “And can I ask, did you see the men yourself?”

  She shook her head. “I heard about it from my neighbours who saw them.”

  “Oh, are they still here? Could I speak with them?”

  She waved her hand. “Some are here and some are gone or dead. I do not mean one particular neighbour – it is what everyone said at the time. One blond man, one dark-haired man. The blond man had a red beard, or you might say orange more correctly.”

  I twisted the ring on my finger. “Do you think it’s true? Or something one person said and everyone repeated?”

  “Oh, but it must be true – everyone has said it, for many years.”

  I thought about the men seen near victims’ houses in cases all over the world – people acting “suspiciously” who turned out to be delivery men, people who looked like “trouble” but turned out to be perfectly innocent passers-by, often because of a hoodie, cap, or skin-colour that didn’t fit with the neighbourhood’s definition of “safe”.

  Asta and Rikke waited as I sat, still turning my ring, wondering how much I could ask.

  “Would you like me to introduce you to some of the neighbours?” Rikke asked. “Perhaps they will remember more about Hanne and about what happened?”

  “I’d really like that, thank you. I’ve read so much about the case, this one and the other two Danish women and lots of other cases beyond Denmark.”

  Rikke’s eyes widened.

  “I read a lot of true crime – it started with my mother’s case and went on from there. But nothing I can read on the Internet compares to a conversation with a real person – I’d love to chat to the neighbours.” Then I remembered that I was supposed to be Linda-from-America. “Oh, wait, I need to tell Dina who I really am before I talk to anyone else.” My stomach twisted.

 
“Of course,” Rikke said. “She is not there now, however – I saw her leave earlier for her bridgeklub – sorry, I do not know ‘bridge’ in English.”

  “It’s the same, assuming you mean the card game.” I smiled.

  “Ah good. So. Come to me when you are ready, and I will take you to meet some people. I am here most days.” She looked at her daughter. “Asta too, though I am certain she will get a job any moment.” Her tone suggested quite the opposite, and Asta rolled her eyes.

  “It takes time, Mor. I’m still waiting for these companies to see my genius.” She grinned, and Rikke sighed.

  “Perhaps if you wear that smart jacket I bought you instead of this –” she waved a hand at Asta’s long black coat and short purple dress, “and spent less time taking photographs, things might go better.”

  This time Asta sighed, and I figured it was time to go.

  I pushed back my chair.

  “Thank you for your time and, if you don’t mind, I’d love to take you up on your kind offer to meet some neighbours. I’ll call back here as soon as I’ve spoken to Dina?”

  Rikke nodded and said goodbye, while Asta walked me to the front door.

  “Mothers,” she said, rolling her eyes, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

  I told her not to worry and launched into my usual script – she’s gone a long time, I don’t remember her, I’m curious more than sad.

  But as I walked down the driveway and along Hanne’s childhood street, thinking about her last visit and her final moments, I wondered if that was still true.

  CHAPTER 35

  Back at the hostel on Tuesday afternoon, I logged into my email account as soon as the terminal was free, and found a message from Dina. Her opening made me squirm. She wanted to thank me – Linda – for taking an interest in her daughter, and hoped I was right, that taking it to a wider audience would help. She gave me her phone-number and I typed it into my mobile phone, feeling sick. I’d have to tell her the truth before it got out of hand. Maybe it was already out of hand.

  In her email, she went on to write about Hanne.

  At school she was restless, dreaming one minute, chattering the next, never sitting still. She had a crazy imagination and talked without stop. Sometimes she disappeared for hours and we did not know where she was but she always came back with a story – stories of witches and wolves and fairies and the Bøhmand. She promised each time she wouldn’t disappear again, but Hanne only ever did what Hanne wanted to do. And then one day, she didn’t come back.

  My throat tightened. The words on the screen blurred as I swiped at my eye, and sat, staring at nothing.

  “Will you need long?” asked a girl who was hovering behind me.

  “No, I think I’m done,” I said and logged out.

  It was time to tell the truth.

  Returning to Damtoften for the second time that day, I slowed my pace as I approached the Karlsens’ front door. The bell echoed inside the house. There was no other sound. I tried again. Nothing. And no car – she must be still at bridge. Deflated but relieved too, I walked back out, and spotted Asta and her mother about to turn into the house opposite the Karlsens. They waited as I crossed to join them.

  “Hello again! She is not back?” Rikke said, looking at her watch. “She volunteers at a school for children from poverty backgrounds sometimes – maybe she went there after bridge. We are calling to Fru Hansen – Mrs Hansen – would you like to meet her? She knew Hanne too.”

  “I don’t want to intrude . . .” I said, cursing my cultural inclination to say no when I meant yes.

  “You are not intruding. She will be very happy to have a new visitor – come.”

  Fru Hansen’s house was just like Rikke’s on the outside, but inside we went back in time. The hall floor was dark walnut, and the deep-red walls were covered in old black-and-white photographs, at odds with the Danish minimalism I’d seen everywhere else. I trailed behind Asta and Rikke as they followed a tiny, white-haired lady into the dining room. She hadn’t seemed remotely surprised to see an extra person with her neighbours – it was almost as though she was expecting me.

  In the dining room, a burgundy rug covered the polished floor, and the walls hosted mirrors of every shape. Three places had been laid at a large dining table and Fru Hansen set about adding a fourth, indicating that we should sit.

  She tilted her head to one side, regarded me with bright blue eyes, and said something in Danish.

  “Fru Hansen, Marianne doesn’t speak Danish so we will speak English. Is that okay for you?” Rikke said.

  Fru Hansen’s eyes never left my face, and she nodded slowly.

  “Marianne. So you are Hanne’s daughter.”

  Something flickered inside me.

  “You know about me?”

  Asta and Rikke looked at one another as Fru Hansen answered.

  “Yes. Not so many do. Dina did not want your father to –” she stopped and looked above my head, searching for a word, “struggle with the newspaper people.”

  I had so many questions, I didn’t know where to start.

  “Did you know Hanne well?”

  “I did. Since a small girl. Since she was a small girl.” She nodded as she corrected herself.

  “What was she like?” It came out in a cracked whisper.

  “Vidunderlig. Wonderful. A lot of stories, all the time.” She paused to pour coffee. “Fun. Always in trouble.” She smiled at me. “Not big trouble, little things. And then she makes a new start every time – she tries so hard!”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Oh, for reading the wrong items. She comes to me when her teacher is angry at her for reading tegneserier instead of books – Asta, what are tegneserier?”

  “Comics.”

  “Yes. She gives me all her comics and tells me to keep them, because she is going to read only ‘good’ books and make her teacher happy.”

  “Do you still have them?”

  Fru Hansen laughed, her eyes crinkling. “No! Because Hanne comes back always in one week to ask for her comics again – she did not want to read the ‘good’ books any more. It happens many times. She gives me her summer diary – no, I mean scrapbog – Asta?”

  “Scrapbook,” Asta said.

  “Ah, of course. She gives me her scrapbook one time, full of drawings and souvenirs of her summer, because she wishes to concentrate on school. Two weeks after, she calls for her scrapbook. I always take what she gives me, and wait for her uundgåelige return. Asta?”

  “Inevitable return.”

  “Yes, her inevitable return. She always comes back.” Fru Hansen smiled, but just as quickly her face changed. “Until of course this time when she does not.” She shook her head, and clasped her tiny hands together, her knuckles white.

  “Were you here, when it happened?” I asked.

  She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine.

  “My husband and I help with the search. Every evening we go out in groups, to the town, to the forest, to the lake. We make posters. We cry and we pray. And mostly we search.”

  I tried to imagine it, Dina and Erik and Fru Hansen twenty years younger, despairing and hoping.

  “And when she was found?”

  “I would not wish it for the worst person.” Her voice, strong and clear despite her age, shook for the first time.

  “And after that, Dina and Erik shut themselves away?”

  She nodded. “They could not –” she paused again, searching for words, “manage it?”

  Asta spoke up. “Deal? They could not deal with it?”

  Fru Hansen nodded. “Yes. They are falling in pieces, and cannot speak to anybody. For the first bit of time, not even to me or to my husband. We call to them every day, because we know one day they will open the door. And finally they do, but only to us, and some others here.” She swept her hand around, and I couldn’t tell if she meant Rikke, or the neighbourhood in general.

  “And did you have a
feeling about who took her?”

  “All the talking was of a dark-haired man and a blond man.”

  “Did you see them?”

  “The dark-haired one, yes. I remember his face very clearly, but the police do not know who he is, and Dina does not either. It is very difficult to have seen this man, to know it is important, but still it is no help.”

  “Where did you see him?”

  “Walking near their house at evenings, two or three times the week before. Always beside the hedges, like he is trying that nobody can see him. Why would a man who does not live here be on this street every night? But then nothing happens. The police do not know who he is, so nothing.”

  Her frustration filled the air, crackling around us.

  “What did he look like?”

  “I think . . . plain.”

  “Ugly, you mean?”

  “No, no. Plain – normal, average. Brown hair, pale face, not one to remember. Perhaps this is why nobody does.”

  “What about the blond man – you saw him too?”

  “No,” she said, after a beat. “I hear from others that he is there, but nobody can say they see him. It is always heard from someone else, you know? So I am not sure. But I think–” She stopped, an odd look on her face, then seemed to decide against whatever she was about to say. She changed tack completely. “Did you ever hear about Nøkken?”

  I shook my head. Asta and Rikke exchanged a look.

  “Nøkken are water spirits. They can change shape. Male spirits who take other forms. They can –” She stopped and looked at the others.

  “Disguise,” Asta said softly.

  “Yes. Sometimes he looks like old man, and other times a handsome youth with golden hair. Sometimes he is a white horse, and sometimes he is invisible.” She paused, and it was as though the room was holding its breath. “Nøkken live in water. They are bad, bad spirits. They change appearance to call women and children, to make them drown in lakes and streams.”

  I sat up straighter and leaned towards her, hypnotised.