Fatal Isles Read online

  ‘Thanks, I know where Malmö is.’

  ‘I’ve tried to call,’ Karen had continued, ignoring Karl, who was clearly still feeling sore. ‘But I’ve had no answer and there’s no voicemail, so I wasn’t able to leave a message. We’ll keep trying, naturally, but given how anti-social Susanne was and how she felt about her parents’ way of life, I reckon there’s little chance this Disa Brinckmann was ever successful in her attempts at making contact.’

  The meeting had concluded on a note of resignation. A faint but unmistakeable whiff of defeat had crept into the room for the first time, like a fart everyone can smell but no one acknowledges. With a voice ringing with utterly unfounded conviction, Karen had tried to turn the dejected mood around: Disa Brinckmann might give them new leads and they would of course look into whether Susanne might in fact have known something damaging about Gunilla Moen, Solgården or its owners. Then she’d stressed it was still early days, the investigation was only three days old. But everyone knew three days was exactly the amount of time that shouldn’t pass without progress. No one had said it, and maybe she was imagining things, but hadn’t it been there, unspoken: ‘If Smeed had been here, we would have had more to go on at this point’.

  *

  Karen puts the small lump of clay back in its trough and rubs the dampness off on her jeans. Then she walks into the kitchenette next to the studio and opens the fridge. Marike doesn’t disappoint. Granted, on the top shelf there’s only half a block of cheese, a couple of bananas, an out-of-date carton of milk, a few rolls of film and a jar of olives, but on the lower shelf, the olive trappings are lined up neatly: three bottles of gin and one of vermouth, which according to Marike belong to the staples category. Karen opens the freezer compartment and takes out one of the martini glasses that Marike always keeps in the freezer ‘just in case’.

  After fetching her bag from the bench in the shop, she returns to the studio and sits down on the sofa with a brimming glass. The first sip brings with it a sudden urge to smoke and she realises that this time she won’t be able to break her promise; she gave away her last cigarettes to a homeless man at the Grenå Mall. For half a minute, she toys with the idea of heading out again, walking up to Varvsgate, where the closest corner shop can be found, but she dismisses the idea after a look out the window. Instead, she opens her bag and pulls out a heavy plastic bag, leans back with her legs crossed and places the bag in her lap. She carefully pushes open the Ziploc bag’s small plastic runner and pulls out the thick photo album she and Karl found in Susanne Smeed’s dresser, which has finally been released by the technicians.

  She studies the album, gingerly stroking its surface; the binding is deftly painted to make it look like leather, but the tattered corners expose frayed cardboard. Then she opens the album, releasing a familiar smell of dust and old glue.

  38

  In her own home, she might have three or four photo albums from various time periods; this one album seems to hold all of the Lindgrens’ family photographs. Perhaps the most important pictures were collected in one place before they left Sweden. The oldest are sepia-toned studio portraits from the previous century and probably show either Anne-Marie’s or Per’s ancestors. Karen reads the Swedish names neatly printed underneath each picture along with a year: Augusta and Gustav, 1901; Göta and Albin, 1904; in both cases the women are wearing black dresses, have their hair pulled back into tight buns and are standing behind their husbands, who are sitting stiffly in their Sunday suits on wooden chairs. Name and year, but no explanation as to the relationships between the people in the pictures.

  The next few pages contain an exposé of the Lindgrens’ friends and relatives through the successive decades of the twentieth century; with each passing decade, the motifs become less obviously connected to special occasions and more everyday in character: a suited and booted man, Rudolf apparently, is proudly leaning against a Model T Ford; a laughing, big-chested woman in a floral 1930s dress and white shoes in a garden is apparently called Anna-Greta and the year is 1933. Another photograph, probably taken at the same time, shows a young man, Lars-Erik, in his student cap with his arm around the same woman on the front steps of a yellow wooden house. Mother and son, Karen thinks to herself.

  The following year, someone called Ulla is doing gymnastics on a beam and the next picture shows young boys Karl-Artur and Eskil who in 1935, along with a few other, unnamed, children, practised diving from a jetty. Two polyphotos from the Second World War show young men wearing uniforms and grave expressions. A few women in their forties look cold at a wintry train station: one of them is waving at the camera while the others look like they’re serving soup to uniformed men queuing in a neat line. Katrineholm 1943, is written in cursive under the picture.

  Among the other ancestors is also a very small photograph with a background that looks familiar: it looks like it was taken down by one of the fishing sheds in Langevik and shows an old couple sitting on wooden chairs, mending nets: Vetle and Alma Gråå, 1947.

  To her surprise, Karen feels moved. Several of the pictures could just as well have come from her own family albums; the sudden sense of ongoing connection and of the meaningless of this transient existence makes her throat feel tight. Long lines of women, men and children, looking serious or happy, who witnessed bygone decades, and are now likely all dead. Generation upon generation, striving to survive and to perpetuate humanity – and maybe to achieve a degree of happiness. All these ancestors whose woes and joys can now only be vaguely glimpsed in a handful of faded photographs. People who meant everything to someone once, yet are forgotten within a few passing generations.

  Some of us even sooner than that, Karen muses and empties her glass.

  The urge to smoke washes over her again and on a sudden impulse she gets up, walks into the kitchenette and opens the cupboard above the buffet. Marike still smokes sometimes. Like Karen, she frequently commits to quitting but gives in far too easily whenever the going gets tough; Karen had noticed her puffing away during Oistra, while complaining about her failed glaze.

  Karen scans the shelves full of cups, glasses, plates and bowls. Feels around wherever her eyes can’t reach and there, at the far back, behind a large red clay bowl, her fingers graze a familiar shape. Triumphant, feeling only the faintest pang of guilt, she pulls out half a packet of Camels.

  *

  After mixing herself another dry martini, opening two windows and pulling on a cardigan, Karen sinks back down onto the sofa and fires off a text to Marike, informing her about her plan to finish off her emergency stash of cigarettes. Then she picks the heavy photo album back up and resumes her study of the photographs. Lars-Erik could be Per’s father. Which of the photographs, if any, show Anne-Marie’s relatives is harder to say. No surnames or kinship bonds are given; she turns the pages with waning curiosity, looking at the endless line of anonymous faces and staged poses.

  Now the cautious optimism of the post-war years is beaming up at her. The pictures are still black and white, but as the forties turn into the fifties, the settings begin to look more modern: children playing in suburban fountains, three young girls with slim waists and tall hair pouting their lips seductively, a young man with jeans and a leather jacket squatting next to a moped. Per 1957, it says under the moped. A couple of death announcements: the big-chested Anna Greta Lindgren apparently died at the age of sevent-four in 1955, mourned and missed by ‘husband, children and grandchildren’. Two more graduation pictures: in the first, a girl with a neat up-do and a timid smile: Anne-Marie, 1959. In the photograph next to her is an equally neat-looking young man with tidy blond hair and a handful of scars bearing witness to healed acne on his high cheekbones.

  Karen lights another cigarette, sips her dry martini and turns the page again. Now she’s reached the sixties; the Lindgrens’ memories are depicted in a riot of colour with that characteristic yellow cast like a film over the pictures. By now, cameras are ubiquitous; a new-found spontaneity brings life to the pictures but the
quality suffers. The focus is often on something in front of, behind or even to the side of the pose, and disembodied arms and legs peek out from the edges. And, possibly due to the same lack of care, names and dates are no longer noted. There can be no doubt it’s the sixties, however. Granted, most of the older people still wear clothes that were modern ten or twenty years previously, but the fashion ideals of the new decade are all the more noticeable among the younger generation. And two people keep appearing in the pictures: a couple who look to be in their late twenties. Karen recognises them from their graduation pictures. Clearly very much in love, Anne-Marie and Per pose in various situations, she in miniskirts and he in tight suit trousers, sometimes alone, but usually together with a group of friends. One member of the group is clearly eager to immortalise every get-together: parties, dinners, vacations. There’s an increasing number of pregnant women in the pictures and then small children. A young couple lift a little boy by the hands so that he dangles laughingly between them; a young woman with long hair breastfeeds her child on a blanket in the grass. Even though her face is partly hidden, it’s clear she’s smiling.

  Karen looks away from the photo album and closes her eyes. Had she smiled in that oblivious, blissful way? Back then, before the colic, flu, chickenpox and ear infections tainted the ecstatic rush with an edge of ever-present anxiety. Back then, before scattered pieces of Lego cut into bare feet, before the terrible twos made getting dressed a battle. Back then, before their house became filled with the sound of her nagging. The constant hectoring about mittens and scarves, homework and TV and for-God’s-sake-don’t-eat-the-cereal-straight-out-of-the-box and John-could-you-teach-him-to-put-the-seat-up-next-time and make-sure-his-seatbelt-is-buckled-you-know-he-unbuckles-himself-the-second-you’re-not-watching.

  Had she studied the little bundle in her arms with a melancholic, almost sad smile, too, as though she could sense what was to come? What was actually going to happen if she let her guard down for so much as a goddamn second. If, for a moment, she told herself not to worry so much. If she didn’t have time to steer clear of danger.

  Mechanically, without really noticing the tears streaming down her face, she wipes them with the back of her hand and stops the snot running with a quick sniff. Her hand is only shaking a little bit when she holds the lighter up to another Camel; when she picks up her glass, it’s steady once more. It’s over for now. Still as frequent, she reflects, but of shorter duration. It’s getting better.

  A deep breath, then she lets her eyes return to Susanne’s collection of photographs, turning the page and studying the pictures with new detachment. She matter-of-factly notes that the fashion – now that the late sixties have consumed the Lindgrens – apparently prescribes wide bellbottoms, tight shirts, long, tie-dyed dresses and centre-parted hair. Picture after picture of laughing young people against a Kodak-blue sky.

  Did any of these people come with the Lindgrens to Doggerland? Are some of them the same people the old men at the Hare and Crow talked about in such a derogatory way? She quickly turns the pages and then, there it is; the picture that finally connects Per and Anne-Marie Lindgren’s life in Sweden with their new existence in a commune on these remote islands.

  A group picture by the railing of a car ferry. Karen immediately recognises the green logo of the company in the background: the stylised fish above a wavy line still adorns the ships trafficking the Dunker-Esbjerg route.

  Three women, two men, three children. A girl of about five is holding one of the women’s hands and smiling at the camera. Another woman carries an infant in a long shawl wound around her body; one of the men is holding a pram. The child in the pram looks to be about one. Their long hair is whipping in the wind and the women’s skirts are tangled around their legs.

  They must have asked a fellow passenger to take the picture, or there was one more person in their group. Karen studies their excited faces and shudders. Some of them would be back in Sweden less than two years later and the ones who stayed in Langevik are now all dead.

  There’s a single picture glued to the next page. Above it, someone has printed two-inch letters and numbers with an orange felt-tip pen: Langevik 1970. Colourful drawings of flowers and peace signs frame the photograph. The photograph itself is a group picture. Eight adults – four women, four men – have squeezed into two rows on a flight of stone steps leading up to the green double doors of the main house. A handful of children are sitting on the lawn in front of the steps.

  Their names are neatly printed underneath the picture: apparently, Disa, Tomas, Ingela and Theo are in the top row.

  Karen leans forward to study the woman on the far left. Disa Brinckmann. So that’s what she looks like. Or, rather, that’s what she looked like almost fifty years ago. She must be well into her seventies by now. Karen looks at the people on the lower step and reads their names: Per, Anne-Marie, Janet and Brandon.

  Per and Anne-Marie Lindgren, Susanne Smeed’s parents, she thinks, studying their smiling faces with a feeling of unease. The picture was taken before Susanne was born; thankfully, neither of her parents could know how her life would end.

  The name on the bottom line read: Orian, Mette and Love. Orian looks like a boy of about one. Mette, who appears to be about five, is sitting with her legs crossed, holding Love in her arms: it’s impossible to say if Love’s a boy or a girl.

  Three of the women, two of the men and all three of the children look like they’re the same people from the ferry; the other faces are new. And no surnames, of course, Karen notes with disappointment.

  The handful of pictures that follow were never glued in, just inserted between the last few pages. A few views of Langevik harbour and some from Lothorp Farm: the main house, the two guesthouses, outbuildings, the chicken coop and something that looks like a newly-dug potato patch. A picture of a bare-chested, long-haired young man with round glasses, sitting on the roof, brandishing a hammer. Karen compares it to the group picture and decides it’s probably the man named Brandon.

  She picks up the next photograph. The slightly blurred picture shows a woman, possibly a tad older than the others, standing by the hob, stirring something in a big pot. Her long ash-blonde hair is gathered in a thick plait that hangs down one of her shoulders. She’s wearing a floor-length dress and is turning toward the camera with a bashful smile, without letting go of the wooden spoon. She turns back to the group picture again: yes, that’s Disa.

  Another photograph: a woman with hennaed hair and a belly like a balloon under her long tie-dyed dress, looking tired with both hands on her back. It must be the woman from the ferry, the one who was carrying an infant in a wrap, Karen decides and turns back to the group picture again. Ingela: at least one of the children must be hers and now she’s apparently pregnant again; no wonder she looks tired.

  The very last picture shows two women sitting on the porch. Still, after more than forty years, Karen can sense the tension. Anne-Marie’s sitting with her head in her hand, her face half turned away, red-headed Ingela has raised one of her hands, as if to ward off the photographer.

  A different life, Karen supposes, that’s probably all they wanted. A new age, new ideals, a new country.

  They had probably, just like everyone else, been searching for a better life, community and happiness, however they conceived of those things. And they had travelled far, put everything on the line to find what they were looking for. They’d had the courage and the will to create the existence they wanted. Yet even so, their dream had died after just a year or two.

  Something clearly went awry up there on Lothorp Farm. The question is what. Suddenly, getting hold of Disa Brinckmann feels urgent.

  39

  Langevik, 1970

  Guilt squeezes his chest, radiating down into his gut. Per Lindgren bends over and breathes in shallow gasps to ease the cramping. After a while, he straightens up and continues down the path without wiping away the tears streaming down his cheeks. How could he? How fucking could he?

&
nbsp; But he knows the answer; the summer’s been three months of continuous foreplay. Ingela’s laughing mouth and full red lips, so unlike Anne-Marie’s sad smile. Ingela, who with hands black with soil from the potato patch pours a scoop of water from the barrel by the wall over her head and down her back. His eyes on the shapely curves outlined underneath the wet fabric of her tank top. Ingela’s carefree joy, so unlike Anne-Marie’s constant anxiety.

  Ingela’s eyes when she looks at him. Her hands, which stroke his back in passing every time she walks by, her thigh against his under the table, her tongue teasingly licking wine from her top lip while her eyes hold his.

  And him. Always attuned to where Ingela is. His eyes constantly seeking hers, wanting validation and getting it every time. He, who laughingly tousled Anne-Marie’s hair that time a few weeks ago when she confronted him yet again with her accusations. Why is he looking at Ingela that way? Does he think she’s blind? Has he slept with her? Tomas’ wife. His best friend’s wife. Answer honestly: has he?

  ‘Oh, Ammi,’ he’d told her, with a surprised chuckle, so convincing he’d realised how easy it would be for him to betray her. Using her pet name and a voice so soft her anger had melted into tears. ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Just tell me the truth,’ she’d said.

  Instead, he’d denied it and turned her accusations around. No, there was nothing between him and Ingela, of course not; you’re imagining things. And even if there was something, Anne-Marie had no right to throw it in his face. They’d agreed they didn’t own each other. Wasn’t that exactly the kind of petty bourgeoisie value they wanted to rise above in the commune?

  ‘Why can’t you just tell me the truth?’ she’d pleaded again.

  And he’d said something about her smothering him. In the end, she’d backed down, given up, said she believed him. But he’d seen the anxiety in her eyes and had promised himself to stop looking at Ingela’s breasts and lips. She was Tomas’ wife, for God’s sake, his best friend’s wife. And he loved Anne-Marie. He really did.