by Andrea Mara
Asta was just outside the gate, her face pale, her eyes huge.
“You heard all that?” I asked, reaching for her shoulder to steady myself.
“Most of it.” She put her arm around my waist. “Oh, Marianne, I don’t know what to say.”
“Let’s just go.”
Inspector Nielsen wasn’t there when we arrived, but I said we’d wait.
Asta and I sat together, going over everything Dina had said.
“I guess the blond man was Rasmus Abraham,” Asta said. “People saw him around the Karlsens’ house over the years, and during the search. You were right.”
I sighed. Being right didn’t feel good.
“My mother must have known him when she was growing up. And judging by the sketches of the Nøkken, she obviously knew something wasn’t right with what he was doing.”
“All that talk of locking away the past,” Asta said, shaking her head. “I guess she was trying to escape her upbringing? Escape the control of the church?”
“I think so. It all seems obvious now, but only because we know who the blond man is. And the dark-haired man was my dad. No wonder he never told me about the trip to Denmark.” I shivered. “Poor Dad, living all those years with the belief that Hanne tried to harm me.”
“You think he also didn’t understand it was postnatal depression?”
“I don’t know, but it seems like it.” I threw up my hands. “I mean, I’m only guessing – I’m not exactly qualified to diagnose an illness in someone who’s been dead all this time, but everything points to it.”
Asta nodded, and slumped back in the chair. “I don’t know what my mother will say. All those people helping with the search, and Dina knew the whole time where Hanne was.” She sat up again. “You know, it sounds bad to say this, but I’m glad Fru Hansen died without knowing this truth.”
“I think she did know.”
“What?”
“Not the whole truth – not that Dina did it, but I think she suspected there was something not right. You remember those Nøkken stories she told us during my first visit? The ones about the man playing the violin to lead women and children into water?”
Asta nodded.
“I think she was talking about Rasmus Abraham. She had gone to the police but nobody took her seriously. So she wove it into a fairy tale.”
“And she fell out with Dina for some time – it makes sense now,” Asta said.
“I think Hanne felt the same way. You remember that key Fru Hansen gave me? It unlocked a jewellery box in our attic, and inside I found sketches in a jewellery box that belonged to her, showing Nøkken in various forms. She must have known exactly what Rasmus Abraham was doing.”
“And perhaps her mother too . . .” Asta said.
And yet she had gone home for help, because that’s what people do – turn to their mothers, trusting they’ll do what’s best for them. Did she understand what was happening to her, as her mother held her under the water? Did she know she was going to die? I had no idea, but I hoped she could rest better now the truth was out.
CHAPTER 60
When we eventually finished at the police station, we’d lost all track of time, but knew we were hours late for Rikke’s lunch. Asta had called her with a garbled message about Dina and the graveyard, so when we finally arrived back there, cold and hungry and exhausted, Rikke was ready with soup and bread and a pot of coffee. Between us, we filled her in on the story, and she sat open-mouthed until we got to the last word.
“I do not know what to think,” she said, shaking her head. “Poor Inge. I am glad she does not know this.”
“I think Fru Hansen knew there was something up with Rasmus Abraham but nobody was listening to her,” I said.
“The blond man, yes?” Rikke said. “The ‘lyshåret’ one she spoke of?”
“Yes, and the dark-haired man was my dad. When the photo fell out of the Bible, Fru Hansen realised that Dina must have known the dark-haired man all this time but said nothing to the police or anyone else. Fru Hansen didn’t know it was my dad of course, she was just worried about why Dina had never said anything.”
Rikke took our soup bowls to the kitchen and came back with cake.
“Sorry, cake does not seem appropriate now, but I did not know all this would happen today.”
I smiled a sad smile. “Me neither. I’ve been trying to work out what happened to Hanne for so long, and now that I have I wonder if it was better not knowing.”
“What will you do now, Marianne?” Rikke asked, cutting into the cake.
“I have to go to the police station tomorrow morning for another interview, and if it goes to court I will have to fly back here, but for now I will go home, go back to work, get on with life, I guess.”
“And hopefully no more footprints in the snow,” Asta said, “unless you were enjoying the mystery?”
“God no, I could do without that.”
Rikke looked puzzled.
“Asta, maybe you can explain it to Rikke,” I said. “I’m going to pop out to make a quick call to Inspector Nielsen.”
As I walked through the living-room door into Rikke’s hallway, I didn’t immediately register that the blue lights were out of the ordinary. From outside, through the glass, scattering across the dark floor. Blinking. Warning. In a fog, I opened the front door. Across the way, a bright yellow van. An ambulance. Outside the Karlsens’ house.
Running down the driveway, I could see a stretcher being lifted into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed shut before I could see who it was. Farther along the street, a second stretcher was being wheeled towards another ambulance. A sheet covered the patient’s head.
“Who is it – what happened?” I asked a young woman in a high-vis jacket. She said something in Danish and turned to walk away. “I don’t speak Danish, but this is my grandparents’ house – can you tell me what happened?”
She turned back, sympathy and something else on her face.
“I cannot say, but police are there,” she said, pointing to a small group of police officers.
In their midst, I spotted Inspector Nielsen.
“What’s happened?” I shouted, rushing over.
He broke free from the group to steer me down the street, his hand gentle on my back. We stopped under a streetlamp.
“What’s happened?” I asked again, whispering now.
He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I shook my head, and waited as he lit his.
“We arrested Rasmus Abraham this afternoon, and then we came here, to take Dina Karlsen into custody. We found Dina and Erik sitting together on the living-room sofa.” He paused.
“What happened to them?” I said, my voice barely audible.
“They had both passed away, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t understand.”
He took a deep drag of his cigarette, and exhaled blue smoke into the night sky. He looked at me again.
“There will be an investigation, but it seems as if Dina tied a plastic bag over Erik’s head and one over her own. His hands were tied. Hers were not.”
That’s when I threw up.
CHAPTER 61
It was late on Sunday night when I finally pulled into the driveway. I parked around the side, and picked my way through the darkness, back to the front of the house. At the living-room window, I drew in a shaky breath and traced my fingers around the frame. Smooth. No disruption. The sticky tape was still in place. The front doorstep was empty, no new souvenirs.
Now the bedroom window. My fingers worked their way across the tape at the bottom, up the left side, and then the right. Halfway up, I felt a bump. The tape was twisted, not smooth. I had left it perfectly smooth, I always did. Had someone taken it off and put it back on? My mind went back to Thursday morning, rushing to leave for the airport. Could I have made a mistake? I couldn’t even remember putting on the tape. I’d done it on autopilot. And surely if someone had been in the house, the tape would be broken, no
t tangled.
Nerves frayed, I turned the key in the front door and pushed it just two inches. I slid my hand in and felt for the book. Still there, where I left it, just inside the door. No-one had been here. No-one had been inside the house.
I reached for the living-room light-switch.
The bulb flickered to life.
And then I saw.
At my bedroom door, neatly placed on the floor, a book.
At the kitchen door lay another one.
At my dad’s old bedroom door, a book there too.
I stood staring, my heart hammering in my chest.
He’d been inside my house.
It took three goes for me to explain to the young garda who answered the phone what I meant and in the end I think I may have been shouting, but, within half an hour, he was in my house. He checked every inch and outside too, returning twice to look at the back door.
“It’s hard to tell for sure but with those old doors you’d need nothing more than a credit card break in.” He looked up at me. “Are you certain nothing was taken? Someone broke in and just left books on the floor?”
“I don’t think anything was taken. I reckon whoever did it wanted to show me that my security is pointless. And it bloody worked.”
“You said you’re getting an alarm?”
“Yes, but it’s not due for another week.”
“I’d say get a locksmith tomorrow to fit a deadbolt to this,” he nodded towards the backdoor, “and maybe call the alarm people to see if they can speed things up? We’re always at the end of a phone too. Call anytime.”
It was the kindness in his last words that undid me. My eyes were suddenly wet, my throat choked. I ushered him out, utterly mortified, and locked the door. Whatever good that might do.
As the heating clanked slowly to life, I wrapped myself in a blanket and huddled on the couch with my laptop and a bowl of microwaved soup. I couldn’t get warm. I didn’t think I could ever feel warm again. Or safe. Not here. Maybe it was time to go. Tears sprang up again. My childhood home. My parents’ home. Only it didn’t feel like home anymore. I got up to check the front door and the back door. I’d get a better lock tomorrow, but what about tonight? What if he came back? I went to my bedroom, picked up the shotgun, and sat back down on the couch. Ready.
Facebook was hopping with notifications from the Armchair Detective group – I clicked in on autopilot, my mind still on locks and shotguns, and the books he’d laid out to mock me. So it took a few minutes to focus, to make sense of all the posts and comments, but it seemed police investigating the Blackwood Strangler case had made an arrest. A man in his sixties, unnamed, was being held in custody. Details were scant but rumour was rife. The story with most traction was that the man’s wife had found a box of jewellery and trinkets in the attic, and thought her husband was having an affair. She showed a friend, who recognised one of the necklaces – a distinctive gold pendant with an inscription. The friend searched online, and the pendant turned up in a newspaper report about a murder in Bournemouth. The two women trawled the Internet searching for other Blackwood Strangler stories and were able to match up two more pieces of jewellery before they decided to go to the police.
Back in our Facebook group, Neil was sceptical.
I’m just not convinced. A woman finds jewellery in the attic? Who says she didn’t plant it there to get her husband in trouble – I read that she was about to look for a divorce.
I’d read the same – she was on the verge of kicking him out. Not because she had any idea of what he’d allegedly done, but because she realised she was happier when he was away on his many business trips than when he was home.
Judith replied to Neil: I suppose it’s a little anti-climactic but that’s how it goes in the real world – are you upset because it wasn’t us who caught him, Neil? f
Neil got predictably defensive: Of course not. I’m just not altogether certain this is the guy. Why would he leave the box of souvenirs in the attic for a start, and why didn’t the wife find them sooner?
Cheryl jumped in: I read about that on iSleuth – apparently the wife is quite short, and can’t reach the hatch to the attic, even standing on a chair. So she left it to her husband to deal with getting things up and down. But then there was a leak and he was away on business, so she got a stepladder and climbed up. That’s when she found the box and took a look inside. Amazing how it was such an everyday thing that got him caught in the end – a leaking pipe!
I put my empty soup bowl aside and started to type. Only I didn’t know what to say. Somehow, after all this time, I didn’t care much about how the Blackwood Strangler was caught.
So, if this is really him, what do we do next?Judith typed. We need a new case! Who wants to choose? Barry and Marianne, anything interesting going on over in Ireland?
Barry was quick to reply: It’ll be interesting to see if this man they’ve arrested is responsible for the other cases we found – the ones in Germany, Poland, Sweden etc. They’re saying on iSleuth he is but, if not, maybe we could keep looking into those? What do you think, Marianne?
My fingers were on the keyboard, but I couldn’t will them to type. I sat back on the couch and shook my head, silently acknowledging that I just didn’t care.
The conversation went on, Barry’s question hanging in the air. Different people put forward different cases, some well known, some less so. The conversation kept going back to the Blackwood Strangler and the rumours that were flying around the Internet. It would be a while before it died down, Judith said after a bit, maybe there was no rush to find something new.
A little later, a private message from Barry popped through.
Are you ok? Very quiet tonight?
I told him I was fine, just back from a trip to Denmark and tired from the journey.
What took you to Denmark? he asked.
A funeral, I typed. Bit wrecked, need to go to bed now, chat soon.
Oh no, who died? he asked, not getting the hint.
I read the message without clicking into it, hoping he’d think I’d logged out for the night. I could deal with Barry more easily after a sleep.
Judith messaged too, also wondering about how quiet I was. I told her the same. She sent me her condolences and didn’t ask any further questions.
Relieved, I logged out, and went to bed.
On Monday morning, I woke with a jolt, disoriented. I’d slept through the night, I realised, and while this should have been a relief, it was quite the opposite. What had I missed, had he been here? It took over an hour to search every inch of the house looking for signs of disturbance. Nothing. Nothing that I could see.
The house was too quiet. I switched on the radio. The morning papers were under discussion, and there was only one topic: more heavy snow on the way. Why does the country shut down every time there’s an inch of snow?one texter complained, followed by another announcing he’d be refusing to cooperate with any curfew this time.
I glanced over at the living-room window but outside the sky was bright blue and clear, no sign of any snow. I took my coffee to the front door and opened it, turning my face to the weak sun, closing my eyes, breathing in the crisp air, willing it to clear my cluttered head.
A shadow passed and I opened my eyes. A grey cloud had appeared out of nowhere, blocking the sun – maybe the forecast was right after all.
Suddenly my eye was drawn to something at my feet – a rolled-up newspaper. Only I didn’t have any newspapers delivered – I read everything online. Picking it up, I unfolded it, wondering if perhaps the local free paper was being delivered everywhere now, even to those of us in the sticks. But it wasn’t a freebie, it was The Irish Times, and someone had circled the main headline in thick black marker: Weather Alert Warns of Heaviest Snow in 10 Years.
I pulled out my phone to message Jamie.
Did you drop me a copy of the paper?
I already knew the answer – of course he didn’t – why would he leave a paper on my doorstep w
hen he could text me instead? Perhaps it was another well-meaning neighbour. Or Bert – maybe the Post Office was delivering papers as some kind of one-off promotion? I rang O’Shea’s and Mick picked up. He hadn’t heard of any newspaper promotion, he told me, but then they wouldn’t know – they didn’t have anything to do with outgoing post. He said he’d ask Bert who had just walked in. Bert hadn’t heard anything either, Mick confirmed after a pause, and hadn’t dropped any newspaper on my doorstep.
“Is she alright?” I could hear Bert saying in the background as I disconnected the call. Good question.
Jamie’s reply came through – he hadn’t left a newspaper on my doorstep.
Are you ok – someone spooking you out again?
Maybe, I replied. Kind of a weird way to do it though. A newspaper?
No weirder than a chalk letter, Jamie replied.
I brought the paper inside and took a photo of it, anticipating the reaction I’d get from Patrick and Geraldine. Sure isn’t it nice that one of your neighbours left you a paper – aren’t they only looking out for you?
It was time for my first conference call. I dialled in but afterwards, if my life depended on it, I couldn’t say what was discussed. My head was buzzing with Dina and Hanne and the Blackwood Strangler and Ray and Alan and Jamie and snow, and most of all, the faceless person who was coming into my garden at night. And now my house. My own Bøhmand. And I realised that somehow the uncovering of Hanne’s death and the arrest in the UK had lulled me into believing the footprints were over. Not because there was any real link, but because it would be just one of those things – a weird time in my life, now over. Only not over. And the snow was coming back.
CHAPTER 62
By one o’clock, the sky had completely clouded over and it was noticeably dark. It was impossible to concentrate on work, and I took time out to call the Garda Station about the latest drop.
