Fatal Isles Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  If you enjoyed Fatal Isles, don’t miss the next in the series

  Copyright

  It is not down in any map; true places never are.

  Herman Melville, Moby Dick

  1

  She knows before she even opens her eyes. This is wrong. All of this is terribly wrong.

  She should be in a different bed, any bed, just not this one. The light snoring from the other side should be someone else’s, anyone’s, just not his. And with an absolute certainty that slices through all other thoughts, she knows she has to get out. Immediately, this second, before he wakes up.

  Slowly, and as silently as she can, Karen Eiken Hornby folds back the duvet and sits up without glancing towards the other side of the wide bed. She scans the hotel room, registering her knickers and bra on the floor next to her bare feet, her dress next to her green suede jacket in a pile on the coffee table, her handbag discarded on an armchair. Beyond them, she can just make out her trainers, peeking out behind the half-open bathroom door.

  She plans every movement in order to get out of the door as quickly as possible, listening to the deep breathing behind her back, her own silent and shallow. She does a quick run-through of the necessary steps in an attempt to quell a wave of anxiety churning in her stomach. Then she takes a deep breath before reaching for her knickers and pulling them on in one motion. Carefully, to avoid jostling the mattress, she gets to her feet and feels the room spin. She waits, breathes. Then a series of hunched-over steps to snatch up her bra and tights with one hand and pick up her dress and jacket with the other. Nausea mounting, she continues into the bathroom and quietly pulls the door shut behind her. Hesitates for a split second, then turns the lock. She instantly regrets it when she hears the tiny click from the bolt, quickly pressing her ear against the door. But any sound on the other side is drowned out by her thumping heart and the blood rushing to her head.

  Then she turns around.

  The eyes that meet hers in the mirror above the sink are blank and strangely unfamiliar. Heavy with self-loathing, she studies her flushed cheeks and the mascara that’s flaked and settled in dark circles under her eyes. Her brown hair is hanging limply on one side, while the rest is still tied back. Her long fringe is sticking to her clammy forehead. Resignedly, she studies the devastation and whispers with a gluey, dry mouth:

  ‘You fucking idiot.’

  Something turns in her stomach; she only just has time to bend down over the toilet before the vomit starts coming. This’ll wake him for sure. She listens helplessly to her own retching, panting as she waits for the next cascade, closing her eyes so as not to have to look at yesterday’s leftovers in the toilet bowl. Gives it a while longer, but her insides seem to have calmed down. Temporarily relieved, she straightens up, turns on the tap and fills her cupped hands. Rinses out her mouth and lets the water cool her face, realising it will probably make the black circles under her eyes worse and deciding it doesn’t matter. There are no limits to this particular hell.

  At almost fifty, she’s really reached new lows this time. She feels like seventy.

  A quick escape is all she has left to hope for now. To get home so she can lie down and die. In her own bed. But first, she has to get out of here, get in her car and go straight home without talking to anyone, without being seen by anyone. Then a faint glimmer of hope when she realises that on this particular day of the year, she might have a chance of slinking out of town unseen. At quarter past seven in the morning, the day after the oyster festival, all of Dunker is out cold.

  She fills one of the toothbrush glasses with cold water and downs it quickly while she disentangles her hair tie with the other hand, noting that it pulls a few long hairs out with it. She refills the glass, pulls on her dress, shoves her bra and tights into her handbag and is just about to put her hand on the door handle when she stops. She has to flush. Even though the sound is bound to wake him, she has to; she can leave no trace of herself behind. With eyes screwed up tightly and a grimace of dread, she listens to the sound of water rushing down into the bowl, followed by the sound of the cistern refilling. She hangs back for a few more seconds, until the sound has subsided to a soft tinkling, then pulls the strap of her handbag over her shoulder.

  Then she takes a deep breath and opens the bathroom door.

  *

  He’s on his back with his face turned to her and for a second, she freezes. Backlit, he looks like he’s watching her. But then another thunderous snore fills the room; she jumps as the spell is broken.

  Six seconds later, she’s gathered up her shoes and opened the door to the hallway. And there, on the cusp of freedom, something makes her turn around. Driven by the same kind of compulsive urge that people have when they pass an accident on the motorway and don’t really want to look but have to anyway, she lets her eyes take in the man in the bed. Studies the slackly open mouth, listens to the faint gurgling that accompanies each exhalation.

  With a feeling of unreality, Karen studies her boss for three seconds before closing the door behind her.

  2

  The door to room 507 closes with the sound of rushing air and a faint click. The maroon carpet is soft under Karen’s bare feet when she hurries over to the lift and pushes the button. Her pulse throbs at her temple
s while she uses her index finger to wrench her trainers on. The moment she straightens up, there is a ding and the lift door slides open with a soft hiss.

  She’s lucky. The reception desk appears to be unmanned when she dashes through the lobby toward the exit with just one quick glance to the side. Then a sudden shudder of anxiety when she realises she has no memory of how she got here. Did they really walk here together? Whose idea had it been? Jumbled memories flash before her like high-speed film sequences: the harbour with her friends Eirik, Kore and Marike, the pub crawl that followed with more oysters and glass after glass of wine. And then a hazy image of Jounas Smeed who had appeared in one of the bars in the wee hours. A few more sequences surface while she moves toward the exit: laughter, bickering, abruptly flaring arguments, drunken embraces to make up and Jounas’s face close to hers. Much too close.

  Halfway out, delayed by the exasperatingly slow revolving door, she’s struck by another horrifying thought: did anyone see them check in?

  *

  Outside the hotel, the September air is clear and free; she has time for one deep breath before her stomach lurches again. She quickly glances up and down the deserted street and jogs across it with one hand clapped over her mouth. Moments later, she’s on the other side of the promenade, leaning over the railing while the wave of nausea slowly subsides. Then a second of relief before the realisation she’s been fending off since she woke up ten minutes earlier hits her full on. The worst is yet to come. She has to see him again on Monday morning.

  Karen gazes eastward across the bay, toward the harbour. She can make out the forest of bobbing masts in the marina, but the ferry terminal beyond it is as deserted as always on Sundays. The ferry from Esbjerg won’t arrive until eight in the evening and since a few years back, there are no boats to Denmark or England on the weekends. Anyone who wants to leave Doggerland on a Sunday these days has to fly from Ravenby. Through the morning mist lingering above the sea, she can make out the white radar tower of a cruise ship anchored at the farthest end of the deep-water port.

  She squints toward the horizon while fumbling around her inside pocket for her sunglasses and cursing softly when they’re not in their usual place. Pats down her jacket and concludes that she must have either dropped them at some point last night or left them in the hotel room. Now she’s going to have to drive at least halfway back to Langevik with the low sun in her eyes, thirsty and nauseous and with a throbbing headache. A double espresso and two paracetamols are what she needs to not be an immediate danger on the road, but she knows that none of the shops and cafés on the other side of Strandgate are open. At this hour, the day after Oistra, she’s likely the only person awake in the whole hungover town, with the possible exception of a rat or two, digging through brimming bins and oyster shells. That thought makes her stomach turn again.

  Karen takes a few deep breaths with her eyes closed and her palms against the rough, cool stones of the wall. The fresh air feels good, and the breeze pushes her damp hair away from her face. She turns the back of her neck toward the sun and gazes down at the beach. A colony of black-headed gulls screech around a few poorly tied binbags. Further off, she makes out the contours of another binbag. Next, she realises it’s actually a man, sleeping. He’s lying on the sand with his coat pulled up over him. Next to him is a shopping trolley, most likely stolen from Qvick or Tema, and now filled with empty bottles and cans. He looks like one of the junkies who hang about by the mall behind Salutorget Square. He’s probably going to feel much the same as she is when he wakes up: thirsty, sweaty and with a hangover like a heavy backpack of anxiety. On the other hand, unlike her, he seems to have spent the night in innocent solitude.

  From far away, a moped engine makes a half-hearted attempt at cutting through the monotonous sound of the breaking surf. Foamy waves crash against the pier that juts fearlessly out into the sea; a dilapidated sailboat is moored to one of the six dolphins in the bay. She absentmindedly ponders how long it will be before the harbour police head out to shoo it away. More likely than not, they’ll let it slide until after lunch at least; zealous as those boys usually are, not even they will have the energy to whip up their hunting instinct before noon this morning.

  The end of the pier is still shrouded in morning haze and the outline of the lighthouse at the tip of the thousand-yard breakwater is still blurred. There must have been thick fog last night; she recalls that the bellowing of the foghorn had been unusually persistent. And then another memory: an annoyed Jounas getting out of bed to close the window before climbing back in. She quickly pushes the image down, tears herself away from the railing and starts walking briskly toward the car park over on Redehusgate.

  Her car is neatly parked three blocks away, exactly where she left it twelve hours before. The sight of her dark green Ford Ranger in the deserted car park outside city hall immediately relaxes her. In less than an hour, she will be in her own bed, in her own house, behind closed blinds, with sleep giving her a few hours’ respite from the relentless self-reproach.

  The next moment, she realises she doesn’t have her car keys.

  3

  ‘How are we doing here?’

  The voice behind her is authoritative and a touch condescending. Karen freezes mid-movement, with one hand in her handbag and the other braced against the bonnet.

  Squatting next to her car, she has unsuccessfully spent a few panicky minutes rummaging around for her keys. Checked every pocket, felt along the bottom of her bag and then proceeded to methodically pick one item out after the other with mounting anxiety.

  Now she curses inaudibly through gritted teeth; what on earth are the police doing out at this hour? Why the fuck are they wasting man-hours and taxpayer money on patrolling streets and city squares when the whole town is asleep? She pushes herself up on stiff legs. Then she reluctantly turns around and tries to squeeze out a relaxed smile.

  She only manages a stiff grimace.

  A look of horror followed by disbelief flutters across both officers’ faces when they behold the devastation.

  ‘Oh, excuse me . . .’ says the older of the two and takes a step back, looking embarrassed.

  His eyes bounce helplessly between the sooty make-up remnants on the ashen face before him and the items on the ground. His slightly younger female colleague gives Karen one quick glance and then stares, openly curious, at the bits and bobs strewn across the asphalt: a copy of yesterday’s paper, a mobile, a half-pack of cigarettes, something that looks like a pair of black tights, a phone charger, a half-eaten apple with bitemarks in its darkened flesh, a bra and a box of condoms.

  Karen forces out another stiff smile, her face tense. Then she gestures vaguely at the mess on the ground.

  ‘I can’t find my car keys.’ She inhales, in an attempt to prevent her breath from reaching the two officers. ‘New handbag,’ she adds.

  ‘Spent the night in town, ma’am?’

  The female officer has squatted down and now looks up with a small smile, as if to signal sympathy and understanding. Karen feels her annoyance growing; what the fuck does this unbearably fit slip of a thing with her bobbing ponytail know about ‘spending the night in town’?

  ‘Why?’ she asks frostily.

  Her penetratingly blue eyes with the golden rings around the pupils – which she knows can cow people into silence – fix on the younger woman, forcing her to look away, and she regrets it the moment she wins the power struggle. What is she playing at?

  ‘It tends to get late after Oistra, so I spent the night at a friend’s,’ she adds in an attempt to smooth things over. ‘But I think I’d better keep looking . . .’

  Karen gestures significantly toward her handbag and the jumble of things that still seem to fascinate the female police officer. Just then, she sees a gloved hand reach out, pick up her wadded-up tights and shake them gently. The flat key hits the pavement with a jangle. Two seconds later she hears the familiar beep of a car door unlocking.

  ‘Here you go,
boss,’ says Police Constable Sara Inguldsen, who has straightened back up and is holding the key out to her with a wry smile.

  Unable to speak, Karen accepts the key and watches as the two officers back up a few steps and salute her in unison. Apparently, Police Constable Björn Lange has regained his ability to speak again, too.

  ‘Drive carefully, Inspector Eiken!’

  4

  The motorway from Dunker to Langevik runs along the south-east coast of Heimö for four miles before cutting across the narrow Skagersnäs Peninsula and continuing in a north-westerly direction for another mile. Karen feels sweat trickle down her back as the artificial chill of the air conditioner simultaneously makes her shiver. Her hands clutch the wheel and she keeps a close eye on the speedometer. Granted, she doubts the traffic division has people out doing speed checks on a morning like this, but the thought of being pulled over by colleagues and having to blow into the breathalyser is about as appealing as another night with Jounas Smeed. And probably as devastating to my career, she reflects. Despite overly generous laws – the result of pragmatic politicians having more to lose than gain from proposing reform – her blood alcohol level is likely above the legal limit. That insight makes her stomach turn to ice and she slows down further. Not that. Never that.

  The road is virtually deserted; minutes go by without her seeing another car. Karen relaxes her grip on the wheel and shakes her shoulders a little. Later, after a few hours’ sleep, she’s going to go over every detail of the night before, obsess about what happened, turn every last moment over and over, scold herself and mete out a sentence of penance and clean-living. Not another drop of alcohol for weeks, no cigarettes ever again, daily runs, weight training and healthy food. It’s not her first time; the mindset inherited from her Noorö relatives is deeply ingrained. Not deeply enough for her to avoid sin, but enough to make the worst transgressions fill her with anxiety. Not for fear of God’s wrath and exclusion from Heaven; more for the price she will be paying in this life.

  This time, her boss at the Doggerland Police Authority is going to put her through the wringer. But as impossible as staying in her job is going to be, she can’t see any alternative. A few weeks’ leave is hardly going to make the problem disappear, and then what? Roll the dice and quit? Change careers, at her age? She banishes any further mulling about the future, but can’t ward off the mounting flood of memories from the night before.