Fatal Isles Read online

  ‘I doubt we’ll find anything else here before the technicians have done their bit,’ Karen says. ‘Let’s head down to see old man Steen.’

  9

  Harald Steen’s house is just over two hundred yards downstream from Susanne’s, on the other side of the Langevik River. Karen and Karl follow the muddy path along the water while she recounts to him what Kneought Brodal has concluded.

  ‘Burglary?’ Karl asks without conviction and pulls his hood up against the fine rain.

  ‘Maybe. Susanne’s handbag was found discarded in the grass by the front steps and there was no wallet in it. Also, some of the hallway dresser drawers were pulled out and the contents looked like they’d been rifled through.’

  ‘OK, so then . . .’

  ‘On the other hand, there was a tea caddy in one of the cabinets with quite a bit of cash in it, which wasn’t taken. Seven hundred and fifty marks and twenty shillings to be precise, according to Larsen, so if someone was after money, they overlooked it. Well, the rest you saw for yourself; neither the living room nor the bedroom seem to have been disturbed, only the hallway dresser.’

  ‘Phone? Laptop?’

  ‘So far we haven’t found either, which may indicate someone took them. But nothing in the house seems to be missing, at least not the kinds of things your run-of-the-mill junkie normally steals. She had seventy-two pieces of silver cutlery neatly packed in a case in one of the kitchen drawers, according to Larsen, which even the most inept thief should have found. But her car does seem to be missing. I know she drives a white Toyota, which isn’t by the house or on the road.’

  ‘Have you put out an alert?’

  ‘What do you think? Johannisen is working on it. And I’ve called in constables Cornelis Loots and Astrid Nielsen to check with the neighbours if anyone’s seen or heard anything.’

  ‘The strangest part is that the front door was locked,’ Karl says. ‘Since when do burglars lock the door behind them?’

  ‘It’s one of those locks that triggers automatically when you close the door. I had one myself; changed it after the second time I locked myself out.’

  ‘And you said no signs of sexual violence?’

  ‘No, not according to Brodal’s preliminary examination anyway. Moreover, she was wearing a robe and slippers and was sitting in the kitchen when it happened.’

  ‘Maybe he’d been in the house for a long time. Holding her against her will, letting her get dressed before he beat her to death.’

  Karen gives Karl a look, her eyebrows sceptically raised.

  ‘But not until after he served her breakfast? Come on, Karl. How likely does that sound?’

  ‘Well, it might have been someone she knew? I’d still wager she had a lover who snapped.’

  ‘If that’s the case, it won’t take long to find out. There are no secrets in this village. But you saw the bed; if she had a lover, they certainly didn’t spend last night together.’

  They cross the plank bridge to the other side of the river and are now on Harald Steen’s property. Karen hesitates a moment and then says:

  ‘And there’s another thing. I spent the night in Dunker and early this morning, driving home, I actually saw Susanne.’

  She tosses her head in the direction of Susanne’s house.

  ‘She was on her on her way back up to the house from the jetty, probably after a morning swim. I’ve seen her do it before and never checked the time, but it must have been about quarter past eight.’

  Karl stops and turns around, as though he might be able to see Susanne hurrying up the path. Karen knows what he’s thinking.

  ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘If Brodal’s estimate regarding the time of death is correct, she was probably murdered shortly after I saw her. And no, I didn’t meet anyone on the road. But I’ve asked the technicians to take a look at the area around the jetty, though I doubt it will lead to anything.’

  *

  Sara Inguldsen meets them on the front steps of Harald Steen’s house. Björn Lange is standing further down the garden; he hastily tries to stub out a cigarette when he spots them.

  ‘Afternoon, boss,’ Inguldsen says, raising her hand to her cap.

  Karen nods curtly and starts scraping her boots against the edge of the steps to get the mud off.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ she says with a quick smile. ‘Learn anything useful?’

  ‘Not a lot; Harald Steen has barely put two words together. He didn’t see anything inside, but he saw Lange’s face when he came back out. And he heard me send the ambulance away, so he pieced it together. His face went completely grey, so I drove him home and left Lange to guard the house on his own.’

  ‘Why didn’t Steen try to get in to help her? According to the report he thought she’d fainted or fallen down,’ Karl Björken asks.

  ‘He tried, he says, but the door was locked. And that much is true; Lange had to break a window to get in. The old man had to go back home first to call the ambulance, then he dragged himself back up the hill to the house again to wait for the ambulance. No wonder he had chest pains.’

  ‘Is he OK now?’ Karen asks, putting her hand on the door handle.

  ‘Yes, but exhausted. He’s on the sofa in the living room; he may have dozed off.’

  ‘All right, take Lange with you and go get something to eat. You’ve been at it for a long time now.’ It’s been a full workday since she ran into Inguldsen and Lange in Dunker, and at that point they had probably already been on the job for a few hours. She instantly regrets it. There’s no need to allude to the morning’s mortification.

  ‘Yes, it’s been a long day for all of us,’ Sara Inguldsen agrees with a grin.

  *

  The door to the living room is open. Harald Steen is lying on the sofa, but he’s not asleep, or maybe Karen’s discreet knock wakes him.

  ‘Oh, it’s Eiken’s girl, is it? Come on in,’ he says and makes as if to get up.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself, Harald,’ Karen says and enters, closely followed by Karl. ‘Yes, you already know me, of course; this is my colleague Karl Björken. Do you mind if we sit down?’

  Harald Steen gestures towards two armchairs upholstered in pilling brown-and-yellow striped fabric. There’s a half-empty glass of water next to a small bottle of heart pills on the coffee table.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ Karen asks as she sits down on the edge of one of the armchairs and leans toward the old man. ‘It must have been a big shock.’

  ‘Yes, it’s worn off a little now. I figured she’d just slipped or fainted. I could never have imagined it would turn out like this. And such a young person, too . . .’

  Karen is suddenly unsure how much Harald Steen has grasped of what’s happened. Does he still think it was some kind of accident? She leans forward and fixes him firmly.

  ‘Susanne’s death wasn’t natural, Harald,’ she says. ‘That’s why we need to talk to you.’

  For a few seconds, Harald’s eyes flit confusedly between Karen and Karl; a moment later, he’s struggling to sit up.

  ‘Not natural? But that lady said . . .’ He gestures toward the door, where Karen only now realises Sara Inguldsen is still standing guard in her dark blue uniform. Curious girl, that, she thinks. Or ambitious.

  ‘I didn’t know how much to tell him,’ Sara says quietly. ‘I just explained that Susanne Smeed was dead, and that we always call a doctor out when someone passes away in their own homes.’

  ‘That’s fine, but you get going now. We’ll contact you and Lange if we need anything else.’

  Karen turns back to Harald Steen and locks eyes with him.

  ‘Yes, what Sara told you is true, Harald, we always do that. But in this case, we unfortunately have good reason to believe that . . . Susanne’s life was taken.’

  ‘Her life was taken.’ As though that sounds better than murdered somehow, she thinks to herself, glancing furtively at the small white bottle of tablet. A heart attack now wouldn’t just be disastrous fo
r Harald Steen, it would likely obliterate any hope of securing an important witness statement.

  ‘That’s why we need your help, you see,’ she continues. ‘Maybe you saw or heard something that might help us find out who . . .’

  ‘How?’ Harald Steen interjects with surprising force. ‘How did Susanne die?’

  He has now, after an arduous struggle, managed to push himself up into sitting position, his back straight but his eyes still confused and worried. He reaches for the glass of water and Karen notes that although his hand does shake a little, he doesn’t look pale.

  ‘Are you all right, Harald?’ she asks in an effort to refocus him. ‘Is there someone you’d like us to call? You have a son down on Frisel, don’t you? Maybe it would be good if he came over and spent the night?’

  She glances at her watch: quarter past four. The ferry from Sande runs every thirty minutes on Sundays. Harald’s son could be here in a matter of hours.

  ‘No, by all things holy, don’t bring him here,’ the old man snaps. ‘I’ll be just fine, don’t you fret.’

  ‘Someone else then?’ Karl suggests mildly. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be alone, at least tonight.’ He’s leaning back in the worn old armchair and has crossed one long leg over the other to try to find a way to support his notepad.

  ‘The carer is coming at six tonight,’ Harald Steen mutters. ‘Unless they forget about me, that is . . .’

  ‘Oh, you have home care, do you? How often do they come?’

  Harald Steen chuckles and is now looking noticeably pleased, as though he’s already forgotten why the police are in his living room.

  ‘Well, since I’ve had my heart troubles a lady comes twice a day and feeds me, so there’s no need to worry about me. She cleans, too, really well. But she’s Polish, of course,’ he adds, as though that cancels out part of his satisfaction about the services provided.

  Karen hears Karl’s pen rasp as he makes a note.

  ‘And when does she normally come by?’

  ‘The Polish lady? Well, you see, it varies. Sometimes around eight in the morning and then again for supper. But she uses very strange spices. I’ve tried to speak to her about it, but—’

  ‘Do you remember when she was here this morning?’ Karl cuts him off with a quick sideways glance at Karen.

  ‘Yes, it was unusually late, maybe nine. No, on second thought, it was actually closer to half nine. I know I’d been awake for a long time before she deigned to show up. Had been out celebrating Oistra, I imagine. They are heavy into the drink, the Polish ladies are, or that’s what they say.’

  Karen and Karl exchanged another look.

  ‘Did you notice anything while you were waiting for your carer to arrive?’ Karl asks. ‘I mean, did you see anyone or maybe a car near Susanne’s house?’

  Harald Steen looks surprised.

  ‘No . . .’ he says slowly, shaking his head, as though the question is incomprehensible to him. ‘How could I see anything? I was still in bed. I usually stay in bed until I after I’ve had my morning coffee. She does make strong coffee, at least.’

  He lights up and Karen sighs inwardly. This isn’t going anywhere. They’d probably do better to pin their hopes on the carer having seen someone. She notices Karl closing his notepad, and they make to get up from the armchairs in unison.

  ‘But I did hear the car, of course.’

  Karen freezes mid-movement and notices out of the corner of her eye that Karl does, too. They both look expectantly at Harald Steen as they sink back down into their armchairs.

  ‘You say you heard a car?’

  Karl speaks with forced calm, as though he’s afraid the least hint of excitement could make Steen lose focus again.

  ‘Yes, Susanne’s car, that clapped-out Japanese banger. That’s why I thought it was strange her kitchen light was on. And the smoke from the chimney, too. I mean, why would she leave things like that? But I could never have imagined . . .’

  ‘Are you sure it was Susanne’s car?’ Karen breaks in as gently as she is able.

  Harald Steen emits an offended snort.

  ‘The noise it makes! Screeching and creaking like an old lady before it gets going. There’s no mistaking it. It’s the starter, of course; I’ve told Susanne to get it looked at, but I guess she never gets around to it.’

  ‘And this was before your carer came this morning?’ Karl prods him. ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘No, you’re right, the Polish lady was here already. It was just after she called out that the coffee was ready. We thought it was a bit peculiar for Susanne to be heading out so early on a Sunday. And the day after Oistra, too. I suppose that’s why she was so late,’ he adds.

  ‘So late? I thought you said it was early?’

  ‘The Polish lady, of course. She didn’t deign to show up until almost ten. Apparently saw her chance to have a lie-in. But it’s like they say, even the wool is a heavy burden for a lazy ewe.’

  ‘Around ten? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I remember now, because I listen to the news and weather forecast every half hour. And I had to listen to the same old news several times. But I suppose she’d been out for Oistra like everyone else and had too much Heimö liquor. They drink like sponges, I’ve been told. The Polish ladies, I mean.’

  Karen takes a deep breath and makes one last attempt.

  ‘So you’re saying you heard Susanne’s car drive off after your carer arrived? Did she hear the car, too, do you think?’

  ‘I should bloody well think so! She said something about how it sounded like the cars back in Poland. Good lass that, at the end of the day.’

  *

  They take their leave after asking one last time if Harald Steen wouldn’t like his son to come. Karen decides not to wait for the carer. Instead, Karl has written down the number of an Angela Novak from a company by the name of Homecare, whose business card they found on the fridge door.

  ‘So, what do you take from that?’ Karl asks while they climb back up the hill.

  ‘He was more doddery than I’d expected. Not too many years ago, Steen was one of Langevik’s most prominent residents. He hosted auctions and was considered stingy but very funny, if I remember correctly. But that’s a long time ago now. In recent years, I’ve mostly seen him from afar, out and about in the village.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think we can draw any conclusions from the times he gave us; it’s hard to tell which if any of them, were accurate,’ Karl says glumly. ‘Even if one of his many guesses is bound to be close.’

  ‘True, but he might be right about hearing Susanne’s car. You’ll have to check with Angela Novak. She might have noticed more than he did, as well.’

  ‘If the old man’s right, it would mean the killer left in the victim’s car sometime just before ten.’

  ‘Well, the car is missing, so there’s a chance he’s correct. Let’s see if Brodal can narrow down the time of death a bit more. I’m going to put the screws on him.’

  ‘When did you put out the alert for the car?’

  ‘As soon as I got here and noticed it missing. But that wasn’t until around two thirty.’

  ‘So the killer had hours to get off the island.’

  ‘Only to go to Noorö or Frisel, if that’s the case. There’s no ferry to Esbjerg or Harwich on Sundays.’

  ‘No, but there are flights from both Lenker and Ravenby. I’ll bet you anything that car is going to turn up at one of the airports.’

  ‘So your new theory is that someone planned the whole thing – killed Susanne Smeed and then fled the country? Just now, you thought it was a burglary. Either way, if you’re right, they should already have found the car, since the car parks by the ferry terminals and airports are the first places we check.’

  Karl Björken shrugs; Karen presses on.

  ‘I spoke to Cornelis Loots, who checked with the port authorities. The only large vessel to leave the island today was a cruise ship that’s currently on its way to Norway. It
left Stockholm on the twenty-fifth and travelled to Dunker via Copenhagen. Its next destination is Edinburgh and it will be stopping by the Shetlands and the Norwegian coast before returning to Sweden, I believe. One of those cruises for American pensioners with Scandinavian roots. But I have a hard time seeing why a rich American would spontaneously leave his luxury suite to cycle to Langevik and kill Susanne Smeed.’

  ‘Cycle?’

  ‘Fine, or hitchhike. How else would he have got here? The killer stole Susanne’s car to get away, but he didn’t leave any other vehicle behind. Either way, I’ve asked Loots to contact the cruise company to request the passenger list, just to be on the safe side. But if your theory about fleeing the country is correct, we don’t stand a chance. The ports leak like sieves.’

  Karl walks with his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his shoulders pulled up against the wind. Karen looks at him and knows that she needs to slow down, not inundate him with arguments, like some bloody terrier.

  ‘And then there’s all the small boats from Denmark, the Netherlands and God knows where,’ she continues. ‘We’re talking thousands of people who arrived yesterday, most of whom left this morning. Why does every idiot and his cousin have to come here for Oistra?’

  Karl chuckles.

  ‘Don’t let Kaldevik or Haugen hear you say that.’

  Karen knows exactly what he’s alluding to. With a shudder, she remembers the Minister of Home Affairs’ visit to the police station a few years previously. In the lead up to the summer season, Gudrun Kaldevik had spoken to the gathered employees of the Dogger Police Authority, underlining how important it was for the police to contribute to the enjoyment and security of the tourists through helpfulness and service mindedness. For once, Karen had agreed with Johannisen when he’d muttered: ‘We’re not a bunch of fucking tour guides.’

  The context of the event had been a notorious case the summer before, when two young, overzealous uniformed officers had taken an intoxicated man into custody. Unfortunately, it turned out the reason the man in question was slumped on a park bench in Stadshuset Park was that he had been assaulted and robbed of his phone and wallet, and the reason he was slurring his words wasn’t drunkenness, but rather that he had suffered a stroke the month before. As part of his recovery, the German captain of industry and his wife had decided to travel to Doggerland, a long-standing dream of theirs. The mistake was only cleared up when the wife, having spent three anxious hours waiting for her husband to return to their hotel after going for a short walk, contacted the police. No amount of apology had been able to persuade the couple to stay on the islands. Or, as they had made very clear, to ever return.