Fatal Isles Page 13

  Jounas glares at her over the edge of his glass but then carries on.

  ‘I think in fact she considered herself a victim,’ he says calmly. ‘She was looking for a lawyer and found a police officer. She was bloody disappointed, I can tell you that.’

  He smiles, pleased about his Edith Södergran reference, and Karen has to laugh a little. So he knows his Nordic poets, or at least remembers the highlights from school.

  ‘And what expression did that disappointment take?’

  ‘Well, obviously she raised merry hell when I dropped out of uni six months after we got married. I’d been unhappy for a long time and in the end I just couldn’t take it anymore.’

  Jounas Smeed sips his drink; Karen silently waits for him to continue.

  ‘Dad and Susanne took turns trying to persuade me to think again. For a while, they were united in their struggle, but when the old man started threatening to disinherit me again, she turned on him, too. And then he coldly informed us he was selling the flat on Freyagate and that we would have to move out.’

  ‘Even though you had a baby? Was he that callous or was he trying to scare you?’

  ‘Well, I suppose he was callous in his way, but I get where he was coming from. Why would he help us out financially if I refused to give in to his wishes? Either way, I wasn’t prepared to carry on with law just because my father or my wife wanted me to. Besides, I’ve always suspected my uncle was fairly grateful to be rid of me. It was just never my thing.’

  ‘So you chose to go back to law enforcement instead. Pulled that uniform back on . . .’

  ‘I did. I did six months up in Ravenby and then another couple of months here in Dunker before they announced they were looking for a chief inspector. Advancement didn’t take as long back then; every year there was another restructure.’

  ‘But Susanne wasn’t happy?’

  ‘Are you joking? One year into our marriage, she’d traded down from a five-bed on Freyagate to a two-bed in Odinswalla. Moreover, I had destroyed any prospect of a dazzling law career and given up my position as the heir of my father’s empire. We barely spoke for a whole year.’

  ‘But you stayed married for a long time after that?’

  ‘At least on paper. And at times, it worked OK. I did keep getting promoted and we moved from the two-bed to a terraced house in Sande. Things improved, put simply. The problem is, it was never enough for Susanne. She could never find it in herself to get over what we could’ve had and that my parents never invited us over. But for some reason, she absolutely didn’t want to get divorced. And me, for my part, well . . . I suppose I figured . . .’

  It was practical, Karen thought to herself.

  ‘I suppose I figured we should wait to split up until Sigrid was a bit older. In hindsight, though, I wonder if that was the right decision,’ he says dejectedly. ‘All the fighting took a toll on her, I’m afraid. Well, you’ve met her,’ he adds, as though that answers the question.

  ‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with Sigrid,’ Karen says cautiously, keenly aware the slightest misstep could make him flare up again. ‘She seems a bit angry, but maybe that’s only natural.’

  ‘A bit angry. Are you sure you met her? Did you see the nose ring? Kid looks like a bloody bull, if you ask me.’

  ‘I’m not asking. What I would like to know more about is Susanne and what happened after the divorce.’

  ‘What do you want to know? She was a greedy, calculating bitch. Isn’t that enough?’

  Jounas knocks back the last of his G&T, puts the glass down a little bit too hard and checks his watch. Karen studies him, seemingly calm; she’s far from done with her questions. If they can’t continue to talk here and now, until she has all the answers she needs, she will have to bring him to the station, and she would prefer to avoid that for as long as possible.

  ‘All right,’ she says and stares at him fixedly. ‘What I hear is that your relationship with Susanne was . . . frosty. And according to Sigrid, the divorce didn’t improve matters. May I ask what your fights were about at that point? After the divorce, I mean.’

  ‘Still about money, of course,’ he snaps. ‘Everything was about money for Susanne. It was all she cared about.’

  Karen thinks about Susanne’s house, comparing it to the one she’s in now. Two bedrooms in Langevik, white laminate bookshelf and Ikea sofa. Neat and tidy, but light years from this ginormous Thingwalla villa with its oriental rugs, valuable art and pool. Apparently, her roving eyes gave her musings away.

  ‘It’s called prenup,’ Jounas remarks. ‘Fair as can be. You take out what you brought in. Nothing else.’

  ‘And she was happy to sign one. Just like that?’

  ‘No, but she didn’t have much choice, did she? Nor did I, if we wanted somewhere to live. Which was a necessity with a child on the way. It was Dad’s idea from beginning to end: without a prenup no flat, no allowance, no job. Sure, I could have ripped it up later, once I’d cut the ties to the old man anyway. God knows Susanne badgered me about it. But . . . well, I suppose I didn’t feel inclined to oblige her. I think it almost drove her over the bloody edge.’

  ‘And when you divorced . . .’

  ‘She got nothing. Zilch, apart from the few things we’d bought during our marriage. What she did get was money every month, a truckload of money, I can tell you that. Voluntary contributions; I’m not completely heartless. At least while we shared custody of Sigrid. The money was really there to make sure Sigrid had a tolerable standard of living when she wasn’t with me. But idiot that I am, I never made sure I knew how Susanne spent it.’

  ‘How did she spend it?’

  Jounas snorts and spreads his arms, making the ice cubes tinkle against the side of his glass.

  ‘How should I know? Pedicures, clothes and liposuction and whatever else nonsense you women want. And constant travel: Thailand, New York, Spain. I think she even managed to squeeze in Turkey.’

  And shoes, Karen notes inwardly.

  ‘What about her house in Langevik, how did she come by that?’

  ‘It was her childhood home. Her mum was dead when we met, but her dad lived there until just before the divorce, when he was put in a hospital. So the house was very conveniently empty, just waiting for Susanne to move in.’

  Convenient for both of you. Karen marvels at Jounas’s ability to pronounce every word he says about Susanne like an implied or overt accusation. Not even now, when she’s dead, can he curb his contempt.

  ‘So her dad was in the hospital. Did he die there?’

  Jounas shrugs, looking like he’s lost interest.

  ‘Yeah, he allegedly drank quite a bit and I guess his liver eventually gave up. But I know almost nothing about Susanne’s parents; she never wanted to talk about them. I suppose they didn’t live up to her expectations either.’

  ‘One more question before I go. How come your fingerprints were found at Susanne’s house? According to the technicians, there were recent prints from you in several places in her house.’

  For a moment, she thinks he might explode. Or implode, more like. She watches her boss’s face turn from white to red. Then he bursts out laughing.

  ‘So, Eiken, you’ve been holding that little morsel back all this time, eh? Don’t get your knickers in a twist; it’s not half as exciting as you’re hoping.’

  ‘Would you please just answer the question,’ she says wearily.

  ‘Because I was there, of course. A week ago, bit less maybe.’

  ‘How come? Nothing you’ve told me indicates you wanted to see her.’

  ‘Because she called. Claimed she wanted to discuss Sigrid and that it was important. I was reluctant, obviously, but she insisted we had to be able to talk about our daughter without fighting, that she’d discovered something that had made her worried. And she really did sound worried, so . . .’

  He breaks off.

  ‘So you went out there?’ Karen says doubtfully.

 
; ‘Yes,’ he bellows. ‘But you can’t fucking imagine what it’s like, that concern for your child can make you put all other things aside.

  There’s a buzzing in her ears; she’s free-falling. The buzzing turns into a loud roar, making Jounas’s words sound remote and strange.

  ‘But I can tell you, Eiken, that for Sigrid, I would do considerably worse things than have a conversation with some crazy bitch. Because it turns out she was just as mad as ever. All she had was the usual nagging about how Sigrid should get an education instead of working at a bar, and then something about her boyfriend, who Susanne apparently didn’t approve of. According to her, he’s into all kinds of dodgy things, stealing and drugs and whatever else she could think of. And suddenly, it was incredibly fucking convenient that I was a police officer. She virtually demanded that I put surveillance on the boy and predictably flew off the handle when I refused to oblige.’

  Karen’s listening with her head lowered and her eyes closed while the roaring slowly subsides and the sound of Jounas’s voice returns.

  ‘. . . so I left and I haven’t seen or heard from her since. And I didn’t kill her either, though I had both reason and a strong urge to many, many times.’

  She’s silent for a few more moments, telling herself she mustn’t cry, not yet, not until she’s out of the house. Then she slowly exhales and stands up on numb legs. She has to get out before she falls apart.

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘I’ll be on my way, then.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that. I’ll be in touch.’

  She only just makes it.

  *

  At least he’s not dissembling, she concludes, having wiped the mascara from under her eyes with paper napkins and started the car.

  He knows nothing about me. He can’t have meant it personally.

  But he’s still a fucking prick, she adds, recalling the spiteful tone Jounas Smeed used to talk about his late ex-wife. Most people avoid speaking ill of the dead; in every investigation Karen’s worked on, even the most hardened criminals have always been portrayed as sweet little lambs as soon as they’ve shuffled off this mortal coil. She actually can’t remember anyone expressing such undisguised contempt for a dead relative. Or hatred, actually. Could he have hated her enough to have driven out there one last time to beat her to death? She doesn’t think so; if that were the case, he would probably have made sure to downplay his feelings toward Susanne. And she hasn’t found a concrete motive. At least not yet.

  Unfortunately, I know exactly where that bastard was yesterday morning, she thinks ruefully and turns right on Valhallgate. Jounas Smeed actually has something incredibly rare: a water-tight alibi, at least until twenty past seven. But after that? According to his own information, he didn’t leave the hotel until half past nine, over two hours later, ‘properly bloody hungover’. That last point, she believes. She has to find something to verify his claims, unless she wants to be the one to give him an alibi for part of that time.

  He didn’t speak to anyone, aside from a homeless person from the beach. Well, he could hardly have found a less credible witness if he’d tried, and probably impossible to track down to boot. And just like when she snuck out of the hotel, the front desk had been unmanned; that neither strengthened nor weakened his claims. If she was lucky, someone had been there, even though Jounas hadn’t seen them. She would have to check on that, today. Dear Lord, let someone corroborate his statements, she thinks; if they’re true, they can write him off and no one would ever have to know where he spent the night. Or with whom. If he left the hotel when he says he did, he simply couldn’t have killed Susanne. On the other hand, an annoying voice in her head interjects: if he left the hotel right after me, he would have had enough time.

  Her thoughts are interrupted as she stops at a red light and her phone rings, making her jump. She digs around her handbag with one hand while keeping an eye on the lights. In the hour or so she spent with Jounas, her phone has rung four times; she declined the calls as soon as she saw the number. Jon Bergman. Clearly, the media department has done its job, deflecting attention from her, but Jon has her direct number. Glancing down at the screen, she’s convinced it will flash the reporter’s name again. Instead, it reads Karl Björken; she picks up immediately.

  ‘Hey, Karl, she says. ‘Any news?’

  He wastes no time on greetings.

  ‘Johannisen’s out,’ he says through gritted teeth. ‘He’s had a heart attack.’

  23

  Karen looks up at the top shelf in her tool shed with a pang of guilt.

  The satisfaction she felt after sealing all seven windows on the ground floor of the main house has been replaced by defeat. The entire first floor still has to be seen to; the house is going to be very draughty this winter unless she tackles it soon. A bit of caulk isn’t really enough. Each window should ideally be taken out, each frame scraped clean of old paint, primed, dried and finally painted with blue oil paint.

  At least there’s a lot of paint, she notes. For some reason, her late father apparently felt a need to keep a store of about ten big buckets, which are still lined up neatly, if reproachfully, on the shelf in front of her. He probably acquired them from someone who’d got their hands on a few pails ‘someone’s cousin had found somewhere’. Walter Eiken was incapable of passing up an opportunity like that. Always careful not to be directly involved when a shipment of something ‘fell off the back of a truck’, but always ready to jump in at a later stage in the supply chain. Walter Eiken’s Noorö genes never decisively triumphed over what he inherited from his mother’s side, which amounted to a modicum of uprightness, the house in Langevik and the fishing rights that came with it. Which was enough to keep him on the right side of the law for the last forty years of his life.

  Karen scans the shelves, sawhorse bench, walls and floor again, without finding what she’s looking for. If it’s not in here either, she must have lent it to someone. The question is to whom.

  With an annoyed sigh, she pushes the tool-shed door shut and turns the wooden latch. Slowly, she ambles across the lawn and picks up the rake discarded on the ground.

  She pauses, holding the long wooden handle, and looks around her yard, studying each building in turn with the expression of a mother eyeing a delinquent son. So much tenderness and love – so many worries. All the things she should be getting to. The remains of a fallen roof shingle lies in a pile underneath the kitchen window – she knows all too well that once one of the shingles have gone, more will soon. Though she can’t see it from here, she knows the north wall of the guesthouse is a sorry sight. And she knows what it ought to look like.

  She slowly moves back toward the house, pinches a cluster of berries from the big rowan outside the kitchen window and studies their colour. Not quite time yet, but as soon as the first frost hits, she will make sure to brew a few bottles of bitter. That much she’s willing to do. All the other things that – according to the meticulous notes her grandmother left her – are supposed to be harvested this time of year, she’s planning to leave to Mother Nature. Common couch and polypody, shepherd’s purse, forest lamb mushrooms, searocket and rosehip . . .

  She pauses and looks down toward the beach rose bramble next to the guesthouse. Maybe she should pick some of the hips after all. How hard is it really to chuck a few handfuls into a pot and boil them? And dry the rest. Maybe next weekend.

  Karen leans the rake against the trunk of the rowan. No point putting it back in the shed before the leaves fall. Besides, it’s handy for raking up rowan berries. But that’s for another time. Right now, she should be calling around to ask, ‘Did you borrow my jigsaw?’

  She makes perfunctory use of the boot scraper on the front step before opening the front door and noting with another heavy sigh that the hinges need greasing.

  *

  While the coffee maker emits a few final rattles, Karen studies the flat pack on her kitchen table. Of course she’s not going to try to hunt do
wn the damn saw tonight. In reality, it’s been so long since she saw it, it could be anywhere. Maybe she should just pop by Grenå on the way home from work tomorrow and buy a new one. It’s going to be chilly, but until she can install the cat flap, she’s going to have to live with leaving the kitchen window ajar.

  I should at least open the box and study the construction. Measure out exactly where to put it now and figure out how to install it. Or even go down to the basement and look for the bloody saw there.

  The thought is so unappealing she considers calling her mother instead. Surprising her with an extra call in addition to the mandatory one every Saturday morning. Being a better daughter than she’s been the past few . . .

  Just then, she’s struck by an idea, as obvious as it is incomprehensible. Why hasn’t she thought of this before? She quickly puts the cat flap package down on the floor, tops up her large coffee mug and adds a splash of milk, sits down at the table and picks up her phone.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  Eleanor’s voice sounds so tense when she picks up Karen is overcome with guilt. Hearing from her is clearly so unexpected it elicits a fear response in her mother.

  ‘No, no,’ she reassures her. ‘I just wanted to ask if you might know . . .’

  She instinctively shies away from her real purpose for calling and casts about for an alternative. Something a good daughter would call her mother to ask about.

  ‘. . . what to do with the rosehips.’

  There’s a few seconds of silence before Eleanor speaks again.

  ‘The rosehips?’ she says in disbelief. ‘You want to know what to do with the rosehips?’

  ‘Yes . . . I can’t remember if you’re supposed to clean them first or boil them with the fuzz and pips.’

  ‘And you’re calling your old mother to ask instead of using the internet?’

  The voice on the other end sounds so amused Karen regrets calling for a split second. Horrified, she realises she has involuntarily slipped back into her sullen teenage tone.