Fatal Isles Read online

‘Well excuse me for asking.’

  That makes Eleanor Eiken, who has put over a thousand miles between herself and forty years of household chores, laugh heartily. Then she clears her throat and continues in a more maternal tone.

  ‘You can do either, but if you don’t clean them, you’ll have to strain it after, of course. Use the chinois strainer that’s hanging on the back of the pantry door. The one that doesn’t fit in the drawers.’

  ‘OK, thanks. How are things otherwise? How are you and . . . Harry? No new ailments?’

  Karen thanks her lucky stars she managed to remember his name. They haven’t been introduced yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time before Eleanor appears on her doorstep with her new friend. There’s no doubt her mother has fallen in love in her old age; Karen has listened to her go on about Harry Lampard since the moment he moved into her co-op on Spain’s Costa del Sol last year. Now, they seem to be spending all their time together.

  ‘Since Saturday, you mean?’ Eleanor laughs. ‘No, actually. But why don’t you go ahead and tell me why you’re really calling? You know, a ewe knows her little lamb . . .’

  Karen sighs and sips her coffee.

  ‘Do you remember Susanne Smeed?’

  ‘Susanne? Of course I remember her. Not a nice person, if you ask me. Not one of the people I miss down here. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She died a couple of days ago.’

  There’s a brief silence.

  ‘What are you saying? She was your age.’

  ‘Three years younger, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘That’s terrible, and here I am, speaking ill of the dead. Was it cancer? It took her father, I believe. Or,’ Eleanor lowers her voice, ‘did she kill herself?’

  ‘Why would you ask that?’

  ‘Well, sometimes things like that run in the family. Susanne’s mother was an anxious sort of woman and rumour had it she killed herself. But I don’t know that on good authority. The Lindgrens were never really part of the community. Being outsiders and all.’

  Karen takes a deep breath.

  ‘Susanne was murdered,’ she says.

  Eleanor Eiken is not a sensationalist, but Karen’s announcement draws an audible gasp.

  There’s a faint tremble in her voice when she continues.

  ‘Was it the Smeed lad?’

  Karen’s quiet for a few seconds. Then she asks, as neutrally as she is able:

  ‘Why would you think it was him?’

  ‘Well, they were like cat and dog, everyone knew that, whether they wanted to or not. Your father always said it can’t be easy to live with a Smeed, but I’m telling you, being married to little Susanne can’t have been a walk in the park, either. There was something wrong with that girl, I don’t mind telling you, though she may be dead now. I guess I figured Jounas finally had enough.’

  ‘They’ve been divorced for almost ten years.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right; silly me. Then who was it, do you know?’

  Karen decides not call her mother out about her feigned confusion.

  ‘Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time,’ she replies, wishing she could have managed to sound a bit more confident. ‘We’re mapping out Susanne’s life at the moment. That’s why I was wondering what you might know. You used to keep track of things in the village.’

  ‘Oh no, sweetheart, I was never a gossip,’ Eleanor says primly.

  ‘I just meant that you lived here a long time and knew most of the locals. You must have known Susanne’s parents.’

  ‘Well. Everyone knew about them, of course. But that’s not the same thing as knowing them. They were outsiders, as you know and . . . well, you know how that goes.’

  ‘Outsiders? Where were they from?’

  ‘Sweden, of all places. But Susanne’s mother was the granddaughter of Vetle Gråå; you remember him, don’t you? No, of course you don’t, but I’m sure you’ve heard about him; he used to own a lot of land. Both forest and pastureland. Well, either way, they inherited the old man’s property, so I guess they did belong here in a way. Otherwise they likely wouldn’t have been accepted at all, because I never knew how they made their living. It wasn’t sheep or fishing anyway.’

  ‘Why did they move here in the first place?’

  ‘Oh dear, well, they lived up on Lothorp Farm for the first few years, if I remember correctly. Not just the Lindgrens, apparently other people moved here, too, looking for a new life. But only the Lindgrens stayed.’

  Her words awaken a childhood memory. Rumours about the Lothorp cult had survived among the children of Langevik. In equal parts fascinated and frightened, Karen had listened to the older children’s tall tales about what had used to go on up there: secret rituals and child sacrifices to pagan gods. And the most terrifying part: that all the cult members were dead now and haunted the place.

  As an adult, she’s surprised more than anything. Why would Langevik attract people looking for a new life? Why would anyone move here voluntarily?

  ‘But all of that happened when we were still up on Noorö,’ Eleanor says. ‘By the time we moved to Langevik, those moonlight farmers had long since given up.’

  Karen nods. Even though she always regards herself as a Langevik native, her first years were spent up on the windswept west coast of Noorö, where her father was from. She doesn’t have any memories from that time; everything she knows about it is based on what her mother has told her. It wasn’t until Walter Eiken, as the oldest son, inherited his grandparents’ house in Langevik that his wife saw a chance to escape the hateful island for good. Eleanor Eiken, nee Wood, didn’t mind ruining her hand cleaning fish or spending nights mending chewed-up nets, even though she was a doctor’s daughter from Ravenby. It was the sanctimonious mix of lawlessness and religiosity on Noorö she had failed to reconcile herself with. Eleanor was neither a criminal nor particularly religious, and she didn’t want her daughter to be, either. Putting a decent distance between her and her husband’s family would improve Eleanor’s quality of life considerably. The mother-in-law in particular would be much improved by distance. And even though the weather on Heimö’s east coast was often harsh, it was nothing compared to the north-west coast of Noorö.

  She had put all of this to her husband, adding that if he insisted on staying on Noorö, now that they finally had an opportunity to leave, he should also start looking for another wife. And whether it was because Walter Eiken took his wife’s ultimatum seriously, or because he was ready to try something new, they had moved to Langevik. It was 1972 and Karen was three. And the commune up on Lothorp Farm survived only in ghost stories told by the local children.

  In other words, they had missed the beginning of the Lindgren family’s life in Langevik, but surely there was something her mum could tell her about Susanne?

  In response to her unspoken question, Eleanor adds:

  ‘To be honest, I don’t really remember Susanne as a child. The village was teeming with children, we didn’t really have time to pay much attention to all of them. But given how her parents were viewed, I can imagine she had a tough time of it. I’m sure you know more about that than I do. You went to the same school, after all.’

  ‘She was three years younger and lived on the other side of the village, so my memories of her are fairly vague. What about later, what do you remember about her as an adult?’

  ‘Not much, really. She left home early and then she married into the Smeed family. I don’t think I saw her once during those years. But there was talk, of course.’

  ‘What did people say?’

  ‘That she’d married up, naturally. Envy, mostly. But as they used to say when I was young: “Marrying rich can prove costly”. Well, maybe we should all pay more attention to those old sayings,’ Eleanor chuckles. ‘Not that Harry’s so very rich, that’s not what I meant. Well, not that we’re planning to get married, either, for that matter . . .’

  Karen notes that her mum has transitioned into nervous blathering only to
then fall abruptly silent, as if suddenly realising her light tone stood in stark contrast to the actual topic at hand.

  ‘And once she got divorced and moved back it was around the same time all the other things happened . . . We had enough on our plates. Well, you know that as well as anyone,’ she adds.

  Yes, Karen thinks to herself. I know that all too well.

  24

  When they take their seats in the conference room once more, the mood is sombre.

  Speaking to Johannisen’s wife on the phone the night before, Karen was told it hadn’t been a heart attack but rather a severe case of angina. The doctors had recommended rest and medication. Right now, he’s feeling relatively OK, his wife told her. Just like Harald Steen, Karen notes, but Johannisen must be at least twenty years his junior.

  When she informed Viggo Haugen about Johannisen’s health emergency and impending sick leave half an hour earlier, he’d managed to look even more troubled than usual.

  ‘This couldn’t have come at a worse time, but I can reassign people from elsewhere.’

  ‘Thank you, I might take you up on that, but as things stand, it wouldn’t be very helpful to have lots of people running around.’

  She had steeled herself to resist his attempts to persuade her to expand the group. Instead, she’d been surprised at Haugen’s easy-going response.

  ‘Well, you’re in charge of the investigation,’ he’d said. ‘It’s your call, Eiken.’

  The explanation for it came when Head of Media Johan Stolt came looking for her in the department. Apparently, the press conference had been a disappointing experience for everyone involved. After the initial run-through of the facts and a handful of follow-up questions he’d been unable to answer, the journalists’ interest in talking to the chief of police had been non-existent and their complaints about the fact that no one in an operational position was available to them had grown strident. The representatives of the various news outlets had grumblingly left the auditorium, discontentedly tossing their visitor’s badges on the reception desk. A press statement would have been just as useful. They’d cancelled lunch meetings and hadn’t been told shit.

  ‘I think you’re going to have to start preparing yourself for having some level of contact with the media after all,’ Johan Stolt had told her with a resigned look on his face.

  She’d stared at him sceptically, and not only because his choice of clothing had been a double-breasted, checkered tweed jacket.

  ‘Me? But Haugen was extremely clear about me not speaking to the media under any circumstances.’

  ‘Well, he’s changed his mind. I’ll be bearing the brunt of it, so we’re going to have to stay in close touch about what information we can make public. But if we hold another press conference, you’ll be needed. Have you had any media training?’

  For now, the chief of police has retreated to lick his wounds after his shambolic press conference, but it’s a temporary reprieve. He’s going to take me off the case, Karen realises. Unless we get this cleared up sharpish, Viggo Haugen’s going to put someone else in charge of the investigation and make me the scapegoat.

  She pauses in the door to the conference room and looks around the table where her team and the Head of Media have now taken their seats. She hesitates for a few seconds, then continues past the chair in the middle she chose both the day before and that morning.

  My investigation, my responsibility, she tells herself and sits down at the head of the table.

  ‘Is everyone here?’ she says and looks out at the group. ‘Cornelis, would you mind closing the door?’

  Cornelis Loots pushes the door shut and sits down next to Astrid Nielsen. They both offer Karen their undivided attention, while Karl Björken busies himself with mugs and coffee urns. There’s a plate of dry sandwiches on the table again today. Boiled ham and peppers this time, she notes, watching with a shudder as Karl pours a stream of the watery coffee into his mug.

  She quickly recounts what she was told by Evald Johannisen’s wife and hopes none of the relief she feels at not having to deal with him as they move forward shows on her face.

  ‘I will of course make sure to stay in touch with Johannisen’s wife; she’s promised to keep me posted on his condition, but his surgery isn’t until tomorrow, unless there’s some acute development.’

  ‘Maybe we should send flowers,’ Astrid Nielsen puts in.

  Karen sighs inwardly: why didn’t she think of that?

  ‘Great idea, let’s make that Björn Lange’s first task,’ she says quickly with a nod to Cornelis, who obediently makes a note. ‘Make sure he buys something sizeable and gets a card we can all sign.’

  Then she turns to Johan Stolt. They’ve agreed he will attend today’s meeting but only take part as needed, for instance in case of a major breakthrough, thereafter.

  ‘Anything from the press conference the group needs to know?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really. The chief of police went over the basic facts and that was pretty much all we had to say. We got the inevitable questions: how did it happen, what weapon was used, is Jounas Smeed a suspect, are there any other suspects . . .’

  ‘And what did you say?’ Karl Björken asks.

  Johan Stolt heaves a resigned sigh and smiles.

  ‘That unfortunately we can’t go into that, for technical reasons, of course. But it’s hardly going to stop the journalists from trying to get the answers by other means. I’ve tried to get hold of Smeed all day to hear if they’ve turned up at his house, but I haven’t been able to reach him. Maybe we should warn his daughter, too, if we haven’t already. But we have to tread carefully there,’ Stolt adds. ‘We can’t be giving the impression we’re trying to gag people who don’t work for the police.’

  ‘I already talked to Jounas,’ Karen says, ‘and he knows what’s what. But I haven’t warned the daughter, though she doesn’t strike me as chatty; hardly the type to do a tell-all interview.’

  ‘She might need the money . . .’

  ‘Sure, and we can’t stop her. But maybe we should warn her, for her own sake, so she’s not caught off guard. There’s always a risk they lay siege to her building, if they’re desperate enough. Would you mind giving her a ring, Karl? As soon as we’re done here, if possible?’

  He nods mutely.

  ‘All right, enough about that. Since Evald isn’t here, maybe you could tell us about your visit to . . .’ Karen consults her notes, ‘. . . the Solgården nursing home,’ she says and turns to Astrid Nielsen.

  Astrid Nielsen gives a self-assured account of her and Evald Johannisen’s meeting with the manager of Solgården, Gunilla Moen, who told them Susanne Smeed had worked at the nursing home as an administrative assistant, with duties such as payroll and handling purchasing invoices, for four years. As far as Gunilla Moen knew, Susanne had been a secretary at an architectural firm before that, but had been laid off when the company moved to the UK. But Gunilla Moen hadn’t been 100 per cent sure; she had only worked at Solgården for just over a year and had ‘inherited’ Susanne Smeed, as she put it.

  ‘Both Evald and I had a strong sense she didn’t like Susanne, but it was impossible to get her to say anything overtly negative,’ Astrid Nielsen says. ‘But, then, she was shocked at learning what had happened, of course, so then it was challenging to get anything useful out of her at all.’

  ‘Did you talk to anyone other than Gunilla Moen?’

  ‘Yes, we spoke to some of the carers, but they didn’t seem to have had much direct contact with Susanne. She seemed to have kept to herself; someone even hinted that she thought herself “above” the other employees and had turned up her nose at the idea of socialising with her co-workers. On the other hand, she doesn’t seem to have socialised with Gunilla Moen or any other member of the management either.’

  We’re going to have to go out there again, Karen reasons. Someone she worked with must have something to say about her. Astrid’s given them all the facts; everything from
employment history to periods of sick leave, but Johannisen’s impressions from their visit would have been valuable. He may be a prick, but he’s also an experienced detective and a sly old bastard, she thinks as she thanks Astrid. She turns to Cornelis Loots.

  ‘Anything from the technicians?’

  ‘It looks like Harald Steen was right about the car. The starter’s in a terrible way, so it may very well be that it was Susanne Smeed’s car he and his carer heard.’

  ‘All right,’ Karl says. ‘So Susanne was killed sometime between about quarter past eight when you, Karen, drove past and saw her, and a couple of minutes to ten when old man Steen heard Susanne’s car leave.’

  ‘That tallies with Brodal’s estimate,’ Karen confirms. ‘Anything else?’

  She turns back to Cornelis Loots who glances down at his notes and then looks up.

  ‘A few things, actually. We didn’t find a computer, but packaging and a receipt for a laptop – an HP – purchased just over three years ago. That may indicate that the killer took it, though three years is a lot for a computer these days.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t realise how old it was,’ Astrid suggests.

  ‘Still haven’t found a mobile?’

  ‘Nope, but there was a Samsung charger on the hallway table. And here’s the best part: using triangulation, they’ve been able to locate signals from Susanne Smeed’s work phone to a place just north of Moerbeck. They just told me.’

  Cornelis looks around the table expectantly, but is met with looks of resignation.

  ‘You’re from Noorö, aren’t you?’ Karl Björken asks.

  ‘Yes . . .’ he admits hesitantly, as though the answer might get him into trouble.

  Cornelis Loots was, indeed, born and raised on the most northerly of the Dogger Islands. But unlike Karl, he only moved to the capital on Heimö six months ago, when he was promoted to detective constable. Getting his wife Lise to agree to the move had required almost three weeks of virtually daily persuasion, negotiation and in the end a promise that Easter, the summer solstice and Christmas would be spent with her parents.