Fatal Isles Page 18

  ‘Yes, someone’s always sleeping in; some people have breakfast in their rooms and some hang the do-not-disturb sign on their doors. So then you have to wait.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to remember what it was like on Sunday morning? Because I need to know when the guest in room 507 checked out.’

  ‘Don’t be crazy,’ Rosita says and takes one last firm drag. ‘We have fifty-one rooms; I can’t keep track of it all.’

  She leans across a garden table and stubs out her cigarette against an upside-down terracotta pot serving as an ashtray.

  ‘But I can have a look in the book,’ she adds, smiling broadly at Karen’s disappointed expression. ‘I always write down the times, so I can keep track of which rooms I’ve done. I’m not so young anymore, after all,’ she says, tapping her knuckle against her forehead. ‘You can come with me after you’re done with your cigarette . . .’

  ‘Do you save all your logs?’ Karen asks and quickly stubs out her half-smoked cigarette while sending up a silent hallelujah to the heavens.

  ‘Not forever, but for a month at least,’ Rosita replies and holds the door open. ‘In case there are any complaints from the guests after the fact. Or from management, for that matter,’ she adds with a grim look while she brushes a few flakes of ash off her housecoat.

  *

  If only everyone was like Rosita Alvarez, Karen considers as she approaches the car park across from the police station. She and Karl agreed to meet there so they can go see Jounas’s sister, Wenche Hellevik, together. A glance at her watch tells her she’s seven minutes early. She carefully sits down on the dusty newspaper box outside the corner shop at the intersection of Kirkegate and Redehusgate and gazes over at the station entrance.

  With a smile, she thinks back to her meeting with Rosita Alvarez, the extraordinary cleaner at Hotel Strand. Karen thinks the woman deserves a medal.

  The do-not-disturb sign had been on the door of room 507 when Rosita checked the fifth-floor hallway that morning at a few minutes past nine. While she waited, she had busied herself with rooms 501 and 503, whose guests had already left the hotel. When she was done, half an hour later, the sign had been taken down and Rosita Alvarez had cleaned room 507 between 9.35 and 9.50, according to her notes.

  Karen goes over the timing one more time. Jounas’s own claim that he left the hotel around half nine seems to tally. Theoretically he could, of course, have left the hotel just after Rosita saw the do-not-disturb sign a few minutes past nine; there was still a thirty-minute gap while she cleaned the other rooms. According to Kneought Brodal, Susanne died no later than 10 a.m., and more likely before 9.30. Say Jounas left the hotel just after nine, she ponders. If so, he would have been eminently able to make it out to Langevik before ten and could have killed Susanne within the time frame specified by Brodal.

  But first he would have had to walk over to the car park by city hall and retrieve his car; another five minutes at least. Just over forty-five minutes left. Well, she has covered that same distance in half an hour once or twice when she’s been in a real hurry, but not without severely breaking the speed limits. If he floored it, he should have been able to make it, but why would Jounas risk getting caught? He’d had no reason to race over there.

  Goddamnit, she thinks, that’s not good enough.

  Karen looks away from the station entrance, turning her face toward the autumn sun and closing her eyes. She’s so close to being able to rule her boss out. Haltingly close, but not quite there. There’s still a theoretical possibility. The minutes and seconds point to him having had the time, but what about a motive? What would the trigger have been? Could something have happened, that morning at the hotel, after I left? she ponders. A phone call, a text, an email; something that woke Jounas up and made him furious? Or frightened?

  ‘Catching rays, are we? Your car or mine?’

  Karl’s voice startles her. Mine, obviously, she thinks, but stifles the impulse. She always feels uncomfortable in the passenger seat, but today she should leave the driving to Karl.

  ‘Why don’t we take yours,’ she says. ‘I need to think.’

  33

  The motorway out of Dunker towards Ravenby cuts straight across the Sörland plain. Mile after mile of meagre fields and deciduous forest, broken up by vast heaths of heather. In the far west, where the road turns north, the horizon comes into view; even this far inland, you can sense that the island’s western side drops precipitously into the sea. These days, few people still believe in the legend of Frendur the giant, who in a fit of rage split Heimö asunder with his sword, sparing the eastern half while letting the western one, where his adulterous wife and false-hearted brother lived in sin together, sink into the Atlantic Ocean. But just like the Earth can seem flat and the sky look like a blue glass dome on a fine summer’s day, Heimö’s coast really does look like it was created by a massive sword blow dealt by someone in a towering fury.

  Karl drives fast but well, and just over an hour later, they’ve covered almost seventy miles, turned off onto route 20 and are now following the signs for Helleviksnäs. It’s turning overcast again, Karen thinks to herself and leans forward to peer up at the grey clouds scudding in from the west, stacking up above them.

  ‘Is it just a coincidence?’ Karl asks with a glance at the GPS. ‘That their surname is Hellevik and they live in Helleviksnäs, I mean.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought so,’ Karen says. ‘I seem to recall that Wenche’s husband’s family is rather large; they probably owned the village once upon a time. But I guess that’s not entirely uncommon.’

  ‘Maybe not here, but down on Frisel it’s virtually unheard of. No one there owns anything beyond their tiny plot of land. If that, even.’

  ‘No, you Friselians aren’t exactly known for your ambition. Nor for your hard work,’ she adds, shooting Karl a teasing look.

  Karl snorts with feigned indignation. He’s heard it before; the further north you live in the Dogger archipelago, the more likely you are to be considered hardworking and honest. The residents of Noorö – with their predominantly Norwegian and Swedish heritage – are still described as industrious, quiet and God-fearing, while their cousins on the southernmost island – where the population has more extensive Danish and Dutch roots – are said to be frivolous and leave their nets in the water for too long. In between is Heimö with its unholy mix of British, Scandinavian and continental European heritage. People came here from different parts of the world and for different reasons. It’s probably true that a long time ago, Heimö served as a safe haven for people who found themselves compelled to leave their homelands for whatever reason, but hardly to the extent the stories try to make out. Yet, although the thieves, murderers and other criminals have never actually been as numerous as some would claim, the main island is, according to the natives of Noorö and Frisel, mostly populated by fish poachers, land owners, shipping magnates and others of their ilk, who don’t mind enriching themselves at the expense of others. And Dunker, the capital, is, naturally, the worst.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Karl Björken mutters. ‘Far be it from Axel Smeed’s daughter to marry down. If you’ve grown up with a silver spoon in your mouth, you obviously can’t just fall for a pauper. I bet they’re swimming in money.’

  ‘I guess we can always ask,’ Karen replies sarcastically.

  But they only have to turn in through the gates to the Helleviks’ property to know that though the family may not be literally swimming in money, they definitely are in a figurative sense. The tennis court to the right of the driveway has both a clubhouse and two rows of raised seats and the kidney-shaped swimming pool beyond it is the largest private pool Karen’s ever seen. She hears Karl mutter something about Scrooge McDuck when he spots the twenty-foot diving board. They continue toward the impressive mansion and park next to the copper green fountain adorning the driveway. Karl kills the engine and leans forward to glance up at the façade through the windscreen.

  ‘Do you think we’re a
llowed to park here? Or are we expected to use the servants’ entrance?’

  Before Karen can reply, a tall woman appears around the corner of the house, stopping at the foot of the magnificent flight of steps leading up to the front door. She’s trailing two wet Yorkshire terriers, who are overcome with excitement at seeing the visitors. Yapping and jumping with joy, they dash back and forth between their owner’s feet and Karl’s car. Behind them, Karen glimpses something that looks like an equally wet but much calmer Irish setter. It trots up and sits down next to the woman, who automatically puts a hand on its chestnut head.

  Karl and Karen open their doors as one and climb out of the car.

  34

  ‘Welcome!’ Wenche Hellevik calls out. ‘All right, all right, settle down!’

  She doesn’t move forward to greet them, but her smile is warm; Karl and Karen walk toward her outstretched hand as quickly as they can. Karen discreetly studies Jounas Smeed’s sister. Her white-blonde hair is pulled back into a French twist as stern as her clothes: a dark green jacket over a white turtleneck, a fitted, green-checkered skirt below her knee, discreet pearl earrings and faintly pink mother-of-pearl nails. The only thing detracting from her curated look is a pair of newly hosed-down wellies, from which her legs grow like dainty flower stalks.

  They shake hands and introduce themselves.

  ‘I thought I heard a car. We only just got back from a little walk and had to rinse off in the mud room. No, I’ve told you, no jumping! Can I offer you a cup of coffee? Or tea, perhaps? You must be exhausted from the drive. No, bad dog!’

  That last part is said in an unexpectedly powerful voice to the Irish setter, who doesn’t seem to understand why this would be a bad time to shake the water out of his fur. Wenche Hellevik leads them up the wide stone steps and in through the richly ornamental oak doors. Because of the stark contrast between the autumn sun outside and the gloom inside, it takes Karen a couple of seconds to realise the gigantic hallway is covered in plastic sheets and cardboard. Two men in white are standing among the jumble of ladders, paint tins and Polyfilla tubes, rollers and brushes. They’re discussing something with a third, unusually tall, man in a blue suit. All three look worried and one of them is pointing at the ceiling.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess; we’ve had a leak from one of the upstairs bathrooms and are going to have to renovate the entire hallway. Darling, the police are here, come say hi before you leave!’

  The conversation with the painters is quickly wrapped up and the tall man joins them, shaking first Karen’s and then Karl’s hand with a polite smile.

  ‘Magnus Hellevik,’ he introduces himself. ‘I believe my wife told me you’re here about this awful business with Susanne.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, we need to talk to as many people who knew her as possible,’ Karen replies.

  ‘I don’t know if talking to me would be of any use; I’m at your disposal, of course, but I would have to ask you to start with me. I have an urgent errand up in Ravenby and should really have left long before now, but we’re having some issues here, as you can see.’

  Magnus Hellevik gestures toward the paint and ladders while studying Karl and Karen in turn, as though pondering who’s more senior, even though they just introduced themselves.

  ‘Did you now Susanne well?’ Karen asks.

  ‘Not at all. We did socialise a bit as a family while she and Jounas were married, but I haven’t seen her since. And it’s been years since they parted ways.’

  Karen nods.

  ‘Then we won’t add to your stress,’ she says with a smile. ‘At least not today. We’re primarily looking to talk to Wenche, but we’ll be in touch if we have any questions for you.’

  Magnus Hellevik looks relieved and excuses himself with a smile and a quick peck on his wife’s cheek.

  ‘Shall we?’

  Wenche gestures toward a pair of sliding doors on the right, before taking the lead and pulling them open with a rumbling sound.

  ‘Do have a seat; I’ll be right back. Did you say tea or coffee?’

  *

  A few minutes later, she returns with a tray laden with three cups, a small tea urn and a plate of lemon muffins. She sits down at one end of a bone-white sofa and turns toward her guests, who have made themselves comfortable in floral chintz armchairs.

  ‘Help yourselves, and then tell me what I can do for you. Milk?’

  She’s nothing like her brother, Karen thinks. Same nose and build, perhaps, but, thankfully, that seems to be where the similarities end. So far, there’s no trace of either bitterness or arrogance on Jounas’s sister’s face. She meets Karl’s eyes and nods for him to go ahead.

  ‘Would you mind telling us about how you and Susanne met? I understand you went to school together?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, but not until sixth form college. Susanne lived in Langevik and spent her first nine years there, but college was a cherished opportunity for her to move away from home.’

  ‘Oh?’ Karen says. ‘So she didn’t commute to Dunker, like everyone else?’

  For a split second, she’s hurled back in time thirty years, to the bumpy yellow Leyland bus she took to school every day for three years. She recalls the constant nausea, caused either by reading her homework on the bus or the cigarettes at the bus stop.

  ‘No, and that’s actually how we became friends,’ Wenche continues. ‘Dad owned a block of rental flats on Nygate and he let me have a small one-bed on the condition that I pay the rent myself. He was very particular about things like that.’

  She takes a sip of her tea and slowly puts her cup down before continuing.

  ‘I had my student grant and worked extra on the weekends, but since I wanted to go to parties and buy clothes, it was hard to make ends meet, so after a couple of months, I put up a flyer to find a flatmate. Susanne must have been the first person to see the flyer and I imagine she tore it down immediately. Anyway, she contacted me during a break that same day and . . . well, she moved in a couple of days later.’

  ‘And you became friends. Were you close?’

  Karl reaches for a muffin and Karen notes that the resentful look he had on his face when they first arrived has softened. Probably placated by the bit about her father not paying her rent, forcing her to work extra. Also, Wenche Hellevik actually seemed fairly down to earth, despite the pool and the tennis court.

  ‘Close? I guess you could say that. It’s so easy to make close friends when you’re young. Before you develop a fixed personality, if you know what I mean. Later in life, we’re more or less fully formed when it comes to our views on all kinds of things, but in our late teens, I believe the things that loomed large in our world were boys, clothes, music and unfair teachers.’

  Karen nods in agreement. Those are the subjects she remembers talking endlessly about on that bumpy bus.

  ‘And young people are so terribly conformist, even though they think they’re so incredibly radical. Most just want to fit in, at any cost. But, to answer your question, yes, we were as close as any two teenage girls would be. Besties, I guess they’d call it.’

  ‘Could you tell us what Susanne was like? What did you think of her as a person?’

  Wenche Hellevik gets an absent look in her eyes as she searches her recollection.

  ‘Anxious,’ she says at length. ‘Decent and helpful and always very eager to please and fit in. Fairly bright, actually, but she wasn’t particularly interested in studying, seemed more focused on developing her social network.’

  ‘Was she popular?’

  ‘Susanne was very good-looking; she had no trouble finding boys. But she wasn’t as liked among the girls and never put any effort into finding girlfriends, other than me. For some reason, she seemed to look up to me in particular; she copied the things I did, got a haircut when I did, bleached her hair like me. Well, I’m a natural blonde, of course,’ Wenche Hellevik quickly corrects herself, ‘but you know what I mean. She just imitated me, bought similar clot
hes and things like that, as much as her finances allowed.’

  ‘And how did you feel about that?’

  Wenche Hellevik shrugs her shoulders; Karen catches a glimpse of both Jounas and Sigrid in the gesture.

  ‘I was probably annoyed from time to time, but it wasn’t a big deal. I guess I was a bit flattered, too. If anything, it seemed to me she was impressed by my family and a tad ashamed about her own background. She wanted to leave her old life behind.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything about her family?’

  ‘Very little at first, but over time I got a clear impression of a less than blissful childhood. Not so much that she was treated poorly at home, more like she – how do I put it? – I guess I got the feeling she didn’t respect her parents. They were eccentric, I guess, and being different must have been very hard back then, especially in a small place like Langevik.’

  ‘Oh? In what way were they eccentric?’ Karl asks.

  He manages to look genuinely surprised, as though he has no idea, even though Karen filled him in on what her mum and the old men at the Hare and Crow told her about the Lothorp Farm commune on their way over. She makes a mental note to tell the lab to hurry up and release the photo album she and Karl had found in Susanne’s bedroom.

  ‘They were what people would’ve called hippies, I imagine,’ Wenche Hellevik says hesitantly. ‘Her parents moved here from Sweden and if I understood her right, they lived in some kind of commune during their first years on the island.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything else about those years?’

  ‘No, she was so little then, I’m not sure how much she knew about the commune. But there were a lot of other things that were hard for her afterwards.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, for example, neither of her parents had a proper job, which I know Susanne found embarrassing. Her peers in the village were mainly the children of fishermen and pilots and other so-called upstanding professionals, while Susanne’s dad just stood around in their garden, painting pictures.’