Fatal Isles Read online

  Cornelis Loots shoots Karen a resigned look.

  ‘Well, I assume we’ll find out if any of the passengers go missing,’ she says. ‘We’ll have to check if any of them have criminal records. I realise it seems a bit futile, but it has to be done, for formal reasons if nothing else. We’ll have to enlist the help of our colleagues in their respective home countries. But I’ll put someone else on that. Haugen’s promised us all the support we need.’

  ‘That would be a first,’ Evald Johannisen mutters grouchily. ‘Imagine what a bit of media interest can do.’

  Karen hides a smile. Johannisen’s right, Viggo Haugen is normally anything but generous with resources, but clearly, in this case, he’s willing to splash out.

  ‘Just say the word and I’ll make sure you have all the help you need, all available resources are at your beck and call,’ he’d told Karen when she had spoken to him on the phone ten minutes earlier. ‘And keep me posted on everything that happens, are we clear?’

  All available resources. That’s not much to boast about in this building. True, the units for economic and environmental crimes have managed to increase their efficiency through a mix of experience and successful recruitment, but there is a very limited supply of experienced murder investigators. Full-blown murder investigations are a rare occurrence on the Dogger Islands. Manslaughter, rape and assault are relatively common, but Karen can personally only recall participating in a handful of murder investigations where the perpetrator was unknown. And one of those cases is still unsolved; they’ve never been able to prove who killed an elderly couple at the northern tip of Noorö sixteen months ago. The badly indebted son – the only person who stood to gain from his parents’ passing – had a watertight alibi. The prevailing opinion among the police is that the son had an accomplice, but there was no evidence to support that theory and eventually, the media turned their attention elsewhere.

  This time, there’s little chance of their curiosity dwindling of its own accord, Karen thinks. The fact that a very senior police officer – who is also a member of one of the republic’s most prominent families – has a connection to the case is going to sustain the journalists’ attention until the murder is solved – and perhaps beyond that, depending on the outcome of the investigation. The risk of information leaking to the media is greater than ever and for each person they bring on board, the risk of someone slipping up increases. I don’t want the entire building sticking their noses in, she’d thought when the Chief of Police gave her his generous offer.

  ‘We’ll start with a small group, and expand as need arises,’ she’d told him.

  Now, Karen Eiken Hornby turns to those around the table.

  ‘The people involved in this investigation are the people in this room. I’m also going to borrow Inguldsen and Lange to do legwork for us. They’re already involved in the case and can help out with some of the more time-consuming tasks. Cornelis, you’re going to coordinate their work and liaise with their superiors when we need to borrow them.’

  Loots nods.

  ‘I assume you don’t need me to emphasise that any and all information leaves this room through me and no one else. And yes,’ she adds, ‘there’s going to be a press conference at twelve noon; Haugen’s doing it himself, so I’ll be briefing him after this meeting about what we have so far.’

  ‘That won’t take long,’ Johannisen mutters.

  ‘Yes, I know we don’t have a lot to say yet, but Haugen’s assessment is that it’s important that we demonstrate transparency from the start. Besides, it could lead to valuable tip-offs from the public,’ she adds, ignoring her co-workers’ sceptical looks. News of the murder had spread online the night before and the morning media have rehashed what little there is to tell ad nauseam. Today’s press conference is going to be a meagre feast; Karen’s grateful she’s not required to attend.

  She takes a deep breath and continues.

  ‘Let’s move on to today’s assignments. Björken and I will be speaking to Susanne’s daughter, Sigrid, as soon as I’m done with Haugen. Evald and Astrid, I want you to check out Susanne’s workplace. She worked at a nursing home in Odinswalla, if I’ve understood it correctly.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Evald Johannisen confirms. ‘Managed to track down the manager on the phone late last night; she said she was going to be there from nine at the latest.’

  ‘Good. We have to talk to everyone who can tell us anything about Susanne Smeed: colleagues, neighbours and relatives. Who was part of her social circle? Did she have a lover? Interests, quarrels, anything that can lead us to a possible motive. And Cornelis, I want you to stay in touch with the technicians and keep me posted on any progress on that front. She must have had a mobile phone at home and probably a laptop, too.’

  They all receive their assignments with silent nods and notetaking. Not even Evald Johannisen objects. But a feeling of silent expectation permeates the room. Did I forget something? Karen wonders with a sudden flutter of panic. Am I supposed to say or do something else?’

  And at that moment, she realises what they’re waiting for.

  ‘I know this is a unique situation, not least for me,’ she says and looks from person to person. ‘Some of you might be wondering why Viggo Haugen chose me to lead this investigation; I’ve asked myself that very question.’

  Evald Johannisen’s chair creaks ominously when he crosses his legs and slowly leans backward. He meets her eyes with raised eyebrows, as though he’s interested to hear what’s next.

  ‘And . . .?’ he drawls. ‘Do you have an explanation?’

  His words turn her insecurity into irritation; she’ll be damned if she backs down.

  ‘I suppose it’s to do with me being the most experienced detective inspector here. It’s true my CV’s light on patrolling; I know some of you have more experience in that area, but in this department, I’m the one with the most experience investigating serious crime and I believe our different backgrounds complement each other. Either way, I hope I can count on your support and cooperation. If not for me, then for Jounas.’

  Evald Johannisen looks down at the table, but the others nod.

  ‘Of course,’ Astrid says.

  ‘What about Jounas?’ Karl Björken asks. ‘Who’s going to talk to him?’

  ‘I will,’ Karen says. ‘I’m going to talk to him again, later today. But you and I are going to start with the daughter. And the rest of you, get digging and we’ll meet back here at 4 p.m. to take stock. And call me immediately if you come across anything of interest.’

  19

  The stairwell of Aspvägen 48 smells like disinfectant, food and recently cleaned-up vomit. The grey stone floor in the lobby is still wet after the morning’s cleaning efforts; the cleaner, with whom they cross paths outside the front door, is striding towards a white van with a bucket in one hand and a long mop in the other.

  Sigrid Smeed lives on the sixth floor, according to the large name board that covers the greater part of a wall on the ground floor; they take the lift. Karl Björken has already spoken to Susanne Smeed’s daughter on the phone to let her know they’re coming; her door opens before they have a chance to ring the bell. She must have been listening for the lift, Karen decides, and catches a brief glimpse of a pale face before the young woman turns around without a word and disappears into the flat. Karl and Karen exchange a look while he pulls the door shut behind them. Then they follow Sigrid into the living room.

  The room is dark. A sofa draped in a cloth with an oriental pattern faces away from a window whose closed curtains shut out the autumn sun. The room’s only light source is a ray of sunlight seeping through a four-inch gap where the maroon curtains don’t quite meet. Bookshelves filled with paperbacks, CDs and a remarkable number of vinyl records cover two of the walls. On the third wall is a poster from an Andy Warhol exhibition at the Louisiana museum in Denmark and a framed newspaper clipping of something that looks like a review from the Frisel Music Festival. Below them, two blac
k guitar cases and a stack of newspapers sit next to a black Marshall amplifier.

  Sigrid has parked herself cross-legged in the middle of the sofa, a clear signal she wants to be the only person on it. A packet of cigarettes and a green plastic lighter lie next to a chipped blue tea mug on the low coffee table made of dark, stained wood. The mug is still half full and the sandwich next to it looks untouched.

  Without asking permission, Karen takes a seat in a tattered wingback armchair and watches as Karl folds his gangly body onto a low light brown leather pouffe. She contemplates the dust particles hovering in the ray of sunlight, then turns to the black-haired girl on the sofa.

  Her face is pale and closed and her mouth tense. Her septum is pierced by a thick gold ring and sinuous green and blue tattoos depicting some kind of serpentine creature wrap around both of her crossed arms. Her shoulder-length hair is tousled, as though she just got out of bed. That its raven colour isn’t real is amply demonstrated by her bloodshot eyes, hiding behind blonde eyelashes. Exposed chinks in her tough armour.

  How different from the little blonde girl smiling in the photographs in Susanne Smeed’s living room. How old can she be, not much more than eighteen or nineteen, surely?

  ‘Hi Sigrid,’ Karen says. ‘How are you feeling?’

  A shrug. Karen braces herself.

  ‘I want to start by saying how sorry I am for you. I understand it must be very difficult to lose your mother. Especially like this.’

  Sigrid’s only reaction is to glance up briefly at the ceiling, as though waiting patiently for her visitors to get to the point. Karen tries again.

  ‘As I’m sure you understand, we are doing everything in our power to find out who killed your mum, which is why we need to ask you some questions. It won’t take long . . .’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Sigrid cuts her off in a harsh voice. ‘Just fucking spit it out and then you can leave. I’m working tonight, so I need to sleep.’

  ‘You’re working?’ Karl asks in surprise.

  ‘Why?’ Sigrid asks and turns to him. ‘You don’t think it’s appropriate?’

  He makes no reply, but glances over at Karen, who takes over again. Some of the softness in her voice is gone when she asks the next question.

  ‘You work at one of the music bars downtown, don’t you? What’s the name of it?’

  ‘Lucius.’

  ‘On Thybeckgate?’

  No answer.

  ‘All right,’ Karen says. ‘Were you working there on Saturday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Until when?’

  ‘I always work until closing.’

  ‘And what time is that?’ Karen asks patiently.

  Sigrid is now studying her nails. Apparently, she’s found something interesting and is scratching at it with her thumbnail. A flake of her black nail polish peels off and falls into her lap.

  ‘Come on,’ Karl intercedes, obviously annoyed. ‘We’ll be out of here sooner if you don’t make us drag every answer out of you. When do you close?’

  ‘One,’ Sigrid mumbles while biting off a piece of cuticle from her right index finger.

  ‘One,’ Karl confirms and makes a note.

  ‘But on Saturday we stayed open until three,’ Sigrid adds, holding up her finger to study the result.

  Nice one, Karl, Karen thinks. Maybe you’ve managed to break the ice.

  ‘Did you go straight home after work?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I went to get my bike first,’ she adds after a short pause.

  Karen suppresses an urge to raise her voice. Karl is doing annoyed today.

  ‘Were you alone, or was someone with you?’ she asks as neutrally as she can manage.

  ‘Like was I hooking up with someone, you mean? You think I bring clients home from work like some fucking whore?’

  ‘No, Sigrid,’ she says with exaggerated patience in her voice. ‘I meant maybe you had a boyfriend with you. Or maybe someone waiting for you at home.’

  Something in Sigrid’s face changes; a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, as though she’s fighting back tears. She pulls on the sleeves of her knitted jumper, stretching them out to cover her hands, and sits in silence for a moment before turning back to Karen and replying, her voice steady once more.

  ‘No, no one. I was alone.’

  ‘But you don’t live here alone, do you?’ Karl says and nods in the direction of the guitar cases. ‘Are they both yours or do you have a boyfriend?’

  A shrug; they wait.

  ‘I don’t fucking know,’ Sigrid says after a while. ‘I have no fucking idea if he’s planning on coming back. We had a fight and he left. Haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Sam. Samuel Nesbö.’

  ‘And you normally both live here?’

  This time there’s a nod and a quick wipe with her sleeve under her nose.

  ‘What happened? Can you tell us?’

  ‘I told you, we had a fight.’

  ‘On Saturday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘What’s it to you? Do you want me to tell you how things are in bed or what?’

  ‘No, we don’t give a shit about that,’ Karen says calmly. ‘But we do want to know what you were fighting about, and what time it was.’

  ‘He got pissed when I talked to some Dutch guys, OK? We’d played and they came up to me during the break. I don’t know what time it was, maybe two?’

  ‘Played?’ Karl says in surprise. ‘I thought you worked behind the bar.’

  Sigrid rolls her eyes and shakes her head with a wan smile at his unfathomable stupidity. For a moment, Karen imagines she can sense the lingering presence of the little girl in the photographs in Susanne Smeed’s living room.

  ‘I do,’ Sigrid says, and now it’s her turn to use an overly patient tone. ‘But we have gigs, too, you see. It is possible to do more than one thing, isn’t it?’

  She pauses briefly and then continues.

  ‘So on Saturday, I worked the bar until half eleven and then we played until closing. Two jobs in one night, super weird, right? Are you going to arrest me now?’

  Karen can feel the sides of her mouth twitching; she frowns to suppress the smile. She looks down at her lap for a moment before catching Sigrid’s gaze and holding it while she asks her next question.

  ‘So you’re telling us you and Sam had a fight, and you went home alone after closing. Did you go straight home?’

  Karen sees Sigrid’s eyes narrow and her upper lip curl up in something that looks like genuine contempt.

  ‘No, I took a detour to Langevik to kill my mum first,’ she says slowly and pulls the corners of her mouth up in a provocatively mirthless smile.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Karen notes that Karl is gearing up to jump back in.

  ‘You did?’ she says calmly, beating him to it. ‘You went to Langevik?’

  ‘And why the fuck would I do that?’

  ‘Well, maybe you didn’t want to be here alone. Maybe you were upset and wanted to spend the night at your mum’s house?’

  ‘Do you know how far that is? It would take hours on a bike.’

  ‘If you were on a bike. Maybe you hitched a ride, I’m guessing lots of people were going that way after Oistra. Hardly impossible to find someone willing to drive you, I’d guess.’

  ‘I went home,’ Sigrid says tersely. ‘Besides, I had no idea she was home. She usually goes away over Oistra. I guess she can’t bear being around happy people.’

  Karen pricks up her ears. This is new information.

  ‘Where does she normally go?’

  Another shrug.

  ‘The usual, I guess. Probably takes the ferry to England or Denmark. She used to go to Mallorca and Greece and whatever, but I doubt she can afford that nowadays.’

  ‘So you didn’t know your mum was staying home this year?’

  ‘No, but even if I had known, I wouldn’t have go
ne over there. Mum’s, like, the last person I would have wanted to see.’

  ‘How come? Did you and your mother not have a good relationship?’ Karl asks.

  Sigrid throws him a disdainful look.

  ‘Did you and your mother not have a good relationship?’ she mocks in an over-the-top impression of Karl. ‘We didn’t have a relationship, period, if you have to know. I haven’t seen her in over a year. Barely talked to her either.’

  ‘And why is that?’ Karen says.

  Sigrid leans forward and pulls a cigarette out of the packet on the coffee table. Her thin hand trembles slightly when she holds the flame of the lighter up to the cigarette and takes a deep drag.

  ‘She was mad,’ she says succinctly and blows out smoke. ‘That’s why.’

  ‘Mad? In what way?’

  ‘Bitter, always nagging. Hated everyone. Thought she could control me even though I haven’t lived at home for over two years. Is that enough?’

  ‘Two years? You must have been very young when you moved out. Was she really OK with that?’

  ‘The day I turned sixteen. I didn’t ask permission.’

  Another drag; her voice is more relaxed now. Some of the shrill overtone has disappeared.

  ‘And before you moved out? Did you move back and forth after the divorce, or did you live with your mum?’ Karen asks and tries to think if her boss has ever mentioned anything about this. No, she concludes, he’s never talked about his daughter at work, at least not in front of me. Only mentioned her in passing once or twice.

  Sigrid takes another drag; this time she blows little smoke rings and watches as they rise toward the ceiling.

  ‘I moved back and forth. Had to pack up my things every Sunday. And it was hell, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘Moving back and forth? Is that what you meant?’