Fatal Isles Page 17

Now she hears a muttered reply from the customer, then the voice of the worked-up clerk cuts through the room again.

  ‘Have you seen what they’re like? Dress like junkies the lot of them, long dresses and long hair. Eighty shillings, please. And little children they have, too, a bunch. God knows how they take care of them. Are they going to go to school here, in the village, when that day comes? Play with our kids? If you ask me, they shouldn’t let people like that procreate. Yes, I know that sounds harsh . . .’

  Apparently, the man buying the screws says something, because the clerk’s irate voice is lowered somewhat.

  ‘Yes, Arthur says the same thing,’ she sighs. ‘Six months at most, he says. Twenty shillings change and your receipt, there you are. Well, it’s one thing in the spring and summer, but when the autumn storms sweep in, they’ll give up and move back home, mark my words. That’s what Arthur says, but I don’t know.’

  More mumbling from the customer before the clerk takes over again.

  ‘Really, you don’t say. Well, we’ll have to hope for the best. Thank you for your business!’

  Anne-Marie straightens up without a word, turns around and quickly walks out of the shop. Feels their eyes on her back when the doorbell shrilly announces that the door has been opened. They’re probably going to think I stole something, she thinks. Add new accusations to the already long list. And they’re going to win in the end. We’re not going to be able to live here; I’m not going to be able to bear it.

  *

  After jogging home, aware of the censuring looks she gets from everyone she meets, she enters the main house out of breath, trying to blink away burning tears. She doesn’t want to tell the others, doesn’t want them to brush it aside and suggest she’s being too sensitive, that she has to not care what other people think. She doesn’t want to worry them; they’re always so worried about her.

  Per is sitting at the kitchen table with Theo, and Disa is standing by the hob, dyeing sheets in a large pot. She lifts out a section of the fabric with her ladle and studies the yellow colour. The smell of beans, onion and spices is rising with the steam from another pot, fogging up the kitchen windows. Brandon is slumped on the bench, with his guitar hugged to his chest as usual; five-year-old Mette is helping him strum the strings. And now Ingela is coming down the stairs with baby Orian on her arm.

  ‘Look,’ he shouts, his little fingers clutching a long piece of string with rattling mussel shells that’s tied around his neck. ‘My necklace!’

  No one heard Anne-Marie enter, but Per still turns around instinctively, as though he can feel her presence. His smile morphs into a look of concern when he sees her flushed cheeks and teary eyes, which they all notice. They make a fuss, lead her over to the table, pull out a chair, give her a cup and fill it with tea and honey. And she assures them she just got winded going up the hill, the road from the village is steep; she’s just feeling unusually tired, maybe she’s caught the cold some of the children had last week. She realises Per is watching her with eyes that can’t hide his flaring hope. That meaningless, hopeless hope that she might be pregnant.

  No, she tells them nothing. Not about what she overheard when she went down to the village to buy paintbrushes to paint the window frames with. And not about her sudden realisation that the idyll that currently reigns on Lothorp Farm is going to be shattered. The threat feels so palpable, sending shivers down her back, like a first gust of air, finding its way into the house, an omen of impending storms. She can’t tell from which direction it’s coming, doesn’t know how close it is. Just that it’s something much worse than a gossipy old hardware store bitch.

  30

  The moment she puts her hand on the door handle, she’s overcome with doubt. Is this really such a good idea? Maybe they’re going to think she’s trying to ingratiate herself, that she’s trying to buy popularity with a stupid coffee machine.

  Instead of going straight in, Karen pauses in the hallway for a few seconds, her mind racing. Maybe they’re right. Isn’t it in fact a kind of bribe? A desperate way of getting the group on her side?

  At least Evald Johannisen isn’t here, she reminds herself and squares her shoulders. The mere thought of the cutting barbs he’d probably throw her way makes her wince. Maybe the others would have agreed with him.

  ‘Fuck,’ she says so loudly it echoes down the stairwell.

  And the blasted thing has to be paid for; there’s bound to be more a lot more sour faces in thirty days’ time. Twenty-nine, she corrects herself and pushes the door open.

  The smell of coffee hits her before she crosses the threshold.

  The door to the conference room at the end of the hallway is standing ajar; she can hear the faint sound of voices coming from inside. She quickly walks through the empty office landscape to her desk and pulls a folder out of her top drawer. Then she continues, with determined, slightly angry steps, toward the conference room and opens the door.

  Ungrateful bastards.

  Karen sinks into her seat, her cheeks on fire, while the spontaneous round of applause subsides and a plate full of cinnamon buns is pushed toward her.

  ‘Damn fine initiative, Eiken,’ Karl says. ‘But I’m assuming they’re going to give you all kinds of hell for it.’

  ‘Cross that bridge when I get to it,’ she replies and gives him a crooked smile while she sinks her teeth into one of the giant buns.

  ‘Shall we shtart?’ she slurs and licks a few grains of pearl sugar off her index finger.

  She quickly relates what she found out from the old men at the Hare and Crow and ends with the words:

  ‘So I think it’s safe to assume Susanne Smeed rubbed a lot of people up the wrong way and was hardly considered a ray of sunshine by the locals And her managers and co-workers seem in agreement.’

  ‘And her daughter,’ Karl Björken adds. ‘And presumably Jounas wasn’t particularly complimentary either?’

  ‘That’s correct. So far, no one has described her in positive terms, and that’s putting it mildly. The question is whether she managed to piss anyone off enough for them to kill her. Might she even have been involved in some kind of blackmail? Surly and unpleasant, that much we know, but was she the snooping type? Anyone?’

  Everyone is silent, looking pensive.

  ‘More like inquisitive,’ Astrid Nielsen says. ‘At least judging from her boss and the handful of colleagues Johannisen and I managed to track down. Susanne Smeed seems to have been the type that notes other people’s mistakes and relishes pointing them out. A bit of a tattletale, too.’

  ‘Cornelis and Astrid, I’m going to have you go back out to Solgården today to dig up anything you can. I’m going to go see Wenche Hellevik – Smeed, as was. She’s Jounas’s sister and one of the few friends Susanne seems to have had,’ she adds after looking up and being met with quizzical looks. ‘Maybe she can give us a more detailed picture. But I need someone to go with me. Karl, do you have time?’

  He nods and Karen turns back to Cornelis Loots.

  ‘Do you have anything to tell us about the technical investigation or anything else you’re in charge of?’

  ‘I spoke to Larsen this morning; they’re working on DNA and fingerprints now and will likely have a result before the end of the day. Well, in addition to the prints that have already been identified as Jounas Smeed’s,’ he adds, looking uncomfortable. ‘And we’re still waiting to hear from Susanne’s bank and the cruise ship.’

  ‘Right, how’s that going? How far have you got?’

  ‘We’ve sent out inquiries to the home countries of each of the passengers, which includes all the Scandinavian countries, the US, the Netherlands and Italy. Germany, too, actually; one of the Danes turned out to hold German citizenship,’ Cornelis Loots says, reading from his papers.

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘So far, no reports of serious crimes, as defined by a minimum of one year in the nick. Granted, the sentencing scale varies between the different countries, but looking at any
one who has ever been incarcerated, we’re talking to two people. Namely . . .’

  Cornelis flips through his papers.

  ‘A Swedish businessman, Erik Björnlund, who spent eighteen months behind bars for insider trading and an American, Brett Close, who did six years, for manslaughter, actually. But when we looked into that, it turned out to be a case of drink driving where a three-year-old girl was killed. And either way, Brett Close is seventy-two years old and that all happened back in the mid-seventies. Since then, he’s been clean as a whistle and according to the head of security on the ship, he and his wife are both deeply religious. Episcopalians, I think he said.’

  ‘Well, we’ve seen God-fearing men commit terrible crimes before,’ Karen says sagely. ‘Don’t forget that pastor on Noorö who offed his wife and four children to save them from further sinning. But I see your point, Brett Close doesn’t exactly feel like a red-hot lead. Anything else?’

  ‘No, that’s all we have so far, but we haven’t heard back from everywhere and the Italians haven’t responded at all. I’m calling them again after this.’

  Karen sighs. The chance of finding something useful via the cruise ship had always been a long shot and it certainly wasn’t looking promising. Once Loots and Nielsen had had replies from every country, they would likely be able to drop that line of inquiry and focus on something else.

  The question is what. The first twenty-four hours of an investigation are always critical; statistically, the chances of solving the case weaken by the hour. They are now going on for three days without a suspect or even a clear motive. Eighty per cent of crimes involving lethal violence are, according to the numbers, cleared up in the first three days.

  But regardless of whether they’re dealing with murder in cold blood or manslaughter in a moment of passion, this case is looking increasingly unlikely to be included in that 80 per cent. After a run-through during which nothing of substance was presented, a customary speculation session regarding likely courses of events and possible motives and the handing out of assignments, Karen ends the meeting, asking Karl Björken to hang around. She tells him that she has an errand to run that morning and agrees to meet up in the car park at one.

  Twenty minutes later, she steps through the revolving doors of Hotel Strand.

  31

  Karen looks at the young receptionist and sighs inwardly. Truls Isaksen is a regular guy of about twenty-five who eyes her with that air of required politeness and deeply felt superiority that is so common among young people in the service industry. His dark hair is neatly pulled back into a discreet ponytail and small, vertical slits in his earlobes reveal that they’re usually adorned somehow when he’s not at work.

  As soon as Karen has introduced herself and told him what she’s there for, his little smirk is erased and his eyebrows are lowered to a more relaxed height. Granted, his work requires him to treat the hotel’s guest with a certain level of politeness, but no one said anything about kissing police arse.

  They’ve gone back to the staff kitchen behind the reception desk and Truls has, after pouring himself a cup of coffee, asked if she wants one, too. She doesn’t. While demolishing half a packet of chocolate biscuits, he pulls out a packet of cigarettes and starts impatiently turning it over in his hand. Apparently, he assumes their conversation will be over quickly so he can step out into the small backyard and have a well-deserved smoke. Karen contemplates offering to go with him and continue their conversation outside. And maybe she would have if she’d been in a better mood, or if Truls had been more welcoming. Instead, she pretends not to notice the cigarettes he has now placed on the table in front of him, proceeding instead to play with a red plastic lighter.

  Thus their conversation begins; Karen asks questions without letting him provoke or wind her up and Truls Isaksen answers increasingly tersely and uninterestedly. She can feel her mood turn even fouler.

  No, he has no idea when the guest in room 507 checked out on Sunday morning; the room had been paid for in advance and he could have dropped the key off at the front desk at any time. The hotel doesn’t make a habit of spying on its guests. No, he’s not at the front desk every second of his shift; he has a right to both eat and go to the bathroom. And yes, he is entitled to grab a few quick cigarette breaks, too, when things are quiet. Besides, there’s a bell people can ring if they need assistance. And yes, he must have been the one who checked the guest into room 507, no one else would have been working at half past midnight. No, he has no clear recollection of the person in question. No, that’s not strange, considering that spontaneous check-ins are fairly coming during Oistra; he’d probably served half a dozen unannounced guests that particular Saturday night. And we all know what they’re here for.

  ‘Horny old men and women skulking over by the lift, trying to keep out of sight,’ Truls Isaksen says with an air of jaded experience. ‘It actually happens on regular weekends, too, but it’s worse during Oistra; lots of drunk middle-aged people panting for some action.’

  Karen squirms inwardly as she listens to the young man’s highly accurate description. Outwardly, she shows no hint of her thoughts; the ability to keep her face impassive is a skill she’s practised during countless interviews. Even so, what Truls Isaksen says next makes her flinch.

  ‘But weren’t you here yourself? I feel like I’ve seen you before.’

  The young receptionist’s sudden epiphany makes Karen study him incredulously. How is it possible that this guy – who neither saw nor heard anything, who can’t remember guests or times and who probably snored his way through half his shift – recognises her of all people? Now he’s eyeing her with an interest that is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

  ‘Aren’t you the one who scarpered at the crack of bloody dawn on Sunday morning? At like seven? I was coming back from the bog and I saw you slink out the doors . . .’

  Karen watches him, her eyebrows raised again; maybe he interprets it as surprise or indignation at his inability to distinguish between officers of the law and hotel guests. Or maybe he doesn’t give a toss. Either way, the flash of interest in Truls Isaksen’s eyes is extinguished and he leans back with a heavy sigh, as though his sudden recollection has sucked all the energy out of him. His next words send a wave of relief through her.

  ‘Whatever, I guess it was someone else. Come to think of it, she looked more like a dumb, drunk slapper than a copper. Though she did remind me of you. No offence, obviously.’

  Karen clears her throat and smiles stiffly.

  ‘Just one more question, then I’ll let you get on with your smoking,’ she says with a nod to the packet of cigarettes. ‘You’re telling me there’s no way of ascertaining when a guest leaves the hotel so long as the room is prepaid and no one at the front desk notes down what time a key card is returned? Are there no cameras?’

  ‘Only in the car park. If the bloke had a car . . .’

  Truls Isaksen looks like he regrets his words the moment they come out. Is she going to make him show her where the CCTV tapes are now, too? Fuck that, some things have to be up to his manager.

  ‘Unfortunately, he didn’t,’ Karen tells him. ‘At least not parked here at the hotel.’

  She stands up and holds out her hand.

  ‘OK then, thank you for your time.’

  Truls Isaksen shakes her hand while pulling out a cigarette with his other one. Then he turns and quickly walks out of the kitchen, disappearing down a hallway that seems to lead to the back door. Apparently, he has no intention of walking Karen out. She watches him go. The door to the backyard remains open for a second; she catches a glimpse of a woman standing on the small paved patio, puffing away on a cigarette. She’s clearly cold in her thin blue cleaning coat and orthopaedic sandals; it looks like she’s hugging herself to stay warm. Then the door closes and Karen turns to walk the other way toward the hotel lobby. Just then, she hears Truls Isaksen’s voice.

  ‘Oi, you . . .’

  He’s standing in the doorw
ay, exhaling a thin cloud of smoke with a contented look on his face, waving Karen over.

  ‘I realised Rosita might know something,’ he says.

  ‘Rosita?’

  ‘Yeah, she was cleaning here on Sunday morning.’

  Then he steps aside, making the woman in the light blue housecoat visible once more.

  32

  Rosita Alvarez gives a clear account of her daily duties and how she always keeps meticulous notes about which rooms have been cleaned or if she’s noticed anything out of the ordinary, such as stolen towels or a need for additional cleaning efforts. Karen listens attentively without interrupting.

  ‘People throw up,’ Rosita says succinctly. ‘Not always in the toilet. It gets on the floor and people don’t clean up after themselves. One guest had vomited all over the bathtub, but that time I went to the manager and told her I wanted extra time. We only have fifteen minutes per room if they’re leavers.’

  ‘Leavers?’

  ‘Yes, people who are checking out. Then we have stayers, people who stay for more than one night; I only have seven minutes to do their rooms.’

  Karen doesn’t ask whether the cleaning of room 507 had required an additional effort, doesn’t want to know. Instead, she listens with mounting horror to Rosita’s account of a normal day at work for a hotel cleaner. Rosita Alvarez matter-of-factly tells her about stolen towels that she has report to avoid getting in trouble herself, about real, imagined and made-up thefts where the cleaners are always the go-to suspects, various kinds of stained sheets, groping guests, insults and the constant time pressure. And she tells her how she likes to start work as early as possible so she can get home to her husband and thirteen-year-old son in Moerbeck.

  ‘I always start on the top floor and work my way down. The second round I do the other way around and then for the third one, I start at the top again. Three or four rounds is usually enough.’

  ‘Yes, please, why not,’ Karen says and accepts a cigarette from the packet Rosita holds out to her with an encouraging nod. ‘So you have to keep coming back to floors you’ve already covered?’