Fatal Isles Page 7

  ‘I did, actually,’ he says after a while. ‘A drunk down on the promenade, looking to bum a cigarette. I gave him one, but I doubt he’s in much of a state to give an exact account of what time it was, if you even manage to get hold of him. I wouldn’t think he has a fixed address, judging by the stuff he was dragging around.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Well, he looked like they normally do, dirty, bearded. He was pulling an old shopping trolley full of glass bottles and junk.’

  ‘And you didn’t see anyone else? Didn’t talk to anyone?’

  ‘What do you think? How many people did you run into this morning?’

  Karen is once again reminded of Björn Lange and Sara Inguldsen and decides to abandon that line of inquiry.

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I went home and fell asleep on the sofa and woke up when Viggo Haugen called just before one to tell me what had happened. I tried to phone Sigrid after that, but she didn’t pick up.’

  ‘Your daughter,’ Karen says, recalling the photograph of the gap-toothed six-year-old on Susanne Smeed’s mantel.

  ‘Yes, but when I couldn’t reach her, I decided to go over. She’s prone to not picking up when I call. But I didn’t want her to hear about her mum being dead from someone else.’

  Karen nods briefly. That sounds reasonable, almost human.

  ‘So, I went back to the station, got in my car and drove up to Gaarda. Yes, that’s where she lives,’ he adds in an annoyed tone, as though this information has provoked raised eyebrows too many times. Apparently, Karen failed to hide her surprise that a future heiress of the Smeed fortune has chosen to live in one of the grey high-rises north of town.

  ‘And did you reach her?’

  ‘Yes, she actually let me in, after ten minutes.’

  His tone isn’t bitter; if anything, he sounds surprised he managed to get hold of his daughter. One of these days, I’m going to have to find out what that’s all about, Karen thinks, but not now.

  ‘How is she?’ she asks instead and sees a shadow of annoyance pass across Jounas’s face.

  ‘You’d have to ask her. I’m sure you’re not planning on holding off interviewing the daughter of a murder victim, regardless of how she’s doing.’

  His voice has hardened again and he stands up abruptly. Staggers slightly but manages to regain his balance.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to add,’ he says without looking Karen in the eye.

  She stands up slowly and says calmly:

  ‘OK, that’s enough for now. But I will need to speak to you again, probably tomorrow. Just one more question before I go.’

  Jounas has walked over to the window and is standing with his back to her, gazing out at the garden. Outside, the rain has picked up and Karen can see the parasol struggling in the wind.

  ‘When did you last see Susanne?’

  ‘Go fuck yourself, Eiken,’ Jounas Smeed replies and slides one of the glass doors open. ‘It’s time for you to leave.’

  *

  The wind and rain hit her face like a slap. The temperature must have dropped several degrees during her short visit to her boss’s house. The wooden deck feels treacherously slick under her boots; she gingerly walks down the three steps to the gravel path. Just before she rounds the corner, she turns around and looks into the brightly lit living room. Jounas Smeed is back at the sideboard, unscrewing the cap of a half-empty bottle of Groth single malt. Then she hears the crash of the parasol toppling over.

  12

  Langevik, 1970

  Per Lindgren shuts his eyes and leans back. It almost feels like he’s taking off, ever so gently, hovering above the ground, carried forward by the sounds around him. The faint soughing of the still bare trees, the gulls angling in from the sea, peering down at the table, screeching excitedly. You might as well give up, he thinks, nothing here but disappointment for you, and for me. Neither he nor the gulls will be served fish. Not here. Meat is out of the question, of course, it always has been, but fish had at least potentially been on the table. Some had been for it, others stridently against. The majority verdict had been that neither fish nor shellfish would be allowed in the commune, but that eggs were OK, so long as they came from their own hens or ducks.

  Per Lindgren smiles when he thinks back to the discussions they had in the run-up to the move. Ingela had threatened to pull her and Tomas out of the project entirely if they started chipping away at their vegetarian ideals. Brandon, who would probably have preferred both eggs and bacon for breakfast, had, after several warning looks from Janet, wisely settled for one out of two. They won’t find out what Theo thinks until tomorrow; the Dutchman is arriving a day later than everyone else. Theo Rep is Janet and Brandon’s friend from Amsterdam, and though the others haven’t met him, both Janet and Brandon have vouched for him being a good fit. Besides, he actually owns a Bukhanka; Lord knows how he got his hands on a Soviet minivan, Per thinks. A terrain vehicle with space for a lot of people is exactly what they’ll need on the island.

  They have six months. That’s how long their pooled funds will be able to keep them afloat while they build a shared future on the farm. They’re going to have to pinch the pennies, live simply, until they can reap what they sow. Everyone has put in everything they have, contributing according to ability. Tomas and Ingela chipped in a few thousand, Disa is contributing knowledge, Brandon contacts – exactly who they are and what they will be good for is unclear to Per – Janet a couple of hundred pounds she inherited from her grandmother and Theo his Bukhanka and some saplings.

  And then there’s his beloved Anne-Marie, without whom, none of it would have been possible. When news reached them that her grandfather had died, all it meant was that some old man she’d never met, the father of a father she could barely remember, had apparently popped his clogs. Anne-Marie had never visited Doggerland, was barely aware she had roots there. And now, like a bolt out of the blue, she was suddenly the owner of Lothorp Farm, north of Langevik on Heimö. The names had sounded strange, almost exotic. But then the lawyers had put it to her plainly: if Anne-Marie wanted, they were more than happy to oversee the sale of Lothorp Farm and the extensive parcels of pastureland and forest that went with it. If, on the other hand, they wanted to keep it all, they would have to find someone to look after it. Or do it themselves.

  They’d only thought about it for a week before making their decision.

  *

  Per starts when he hears the familiar sound of running, laughing children break off suddenly with a thud in the gravel yard. He counts inwardly: one, two, three, and then it comes, the howl. And moments later, Disa’s mild Danish voice soothing:

  ‘There, there, you’re all right.’

  He keeps his eyes closed and hears the crying subside as a second child begins to scream inside the house and then a third one.

  ‘I’m on it,’ Tomas announces; Per pictures his friend picking up Love, expertly sniffing to check if the cloth nappy needs changing before taking Orian into his arms, comforting him. Bathing, changing and soothing is Tomas’ job, breastfeeding is Ingela’s. And Tomas dutifully completes his tasks, even though the children aren’t his. So in love is he with Ingela that he’d probably agree to anything to keep her this time. Now that they’ve finally found their way back to each other after several years apart.

  And then Per muses that Tomas completes his tasks with the same diligence he used to devote to building model aeroplanes when he and Per were children. He still remembers the smell of the glue they used to assemble the tiny parts they’d spread out on the desk in Tomas’ boyhood room. He hadn’t had the patience for it; he’d frequently left his best friend to worry about the tiny grey pieces of plastic while he turned his attention to his record collection. Tomas’ uncle had worked in the music industry and provided his nephew with the latest albums, something Per could only dream about.

  ‘You can have it,’ Tomas would tell him, when he saw Per squinting to read every letter on the back
of the cover of some single he’d barely glanced at. ‘You should take it, I have loads anyway.’

  *

  Now he can hear the clatter of china and cutlery being arranged on the table, the creak of a cork reluctantly letting itself be pulled out of a bottle before capitulating with a plop. The eager patter of feet going in and out of the house, brisk steps to fetch something else to put on the table. And the voices. Voices rising and falling, interrupted by laughter, by someone hollering for someone to bring something from the kitchen.

  The sounds of a party.

  He really should get up and help, but he can’t bring himself to abandon his reverie. And now Brandon starts humming ‘I Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die-Rag’ and someone else – is that Ingela? – tentatively joins in the verse. She can’t quite keep up with the lyrics or Brandon’s tempo, but when he gets to the chorus, they all laughingly sing together:

  ‘And it’s one, two, three,

  What are we fighting for?

  Don’t ask me, I don’t give a damn,

  Next stop is Vietnam.’

  Per suddenly realises he’s opened his eyes and is singing along, too. And then he meets Anne-Marie’s eyes, and they mime along together as she dances toward him.

  ‘And it’s five, six, seven,

  Open up the pearly gates . . .’

  Then she’s on his lap, pressing her lips against his neck, tickling the sensitive skin.

  ‘You were right,’ she mumbles.

  ‘We were right; didn’t you want this as much as I did?’

  He can feel her nodding, feel her smiling against his neck. Yes, she wanted it, too.

  That’s how it had worked; his idea at first, but a decision made together. To pack up, leave everything and start over.

  A different life this time.

  13

  At the bunker-like police headquarters in Dunker, all but two floors are dark. The only light in the reception on Redehusgate is seeping out from between the closed lift doors.

  The Doggerland Police Authority is divided into four main districts: north and south Heimö, Frisel and Noorö. Each district is further divided into local police areas, which handle most of the day-to-day policing. All serious crimes, punishable by a prison sentence of five years or more, are investigated centrally by the Doggerland National Criminal Investigation Department, usually referred to by its abbreviation, CID. The department is located on the third floor, sandwiched between community policing and traffic on the second floor, and technical and IT on the fourth.

  The Clinic, as most police officers who’ve had the dubious pleasure of working in the building call it, was built on land made vacant by the demolition of four blocks of old eighteenth-century wooden houses, which was pushed through despite massive public protests. Today, the six-storey Police Authority colossus looms ominously over Dunker’s venerable city hall, which is putting up defiant resistance across the street.

  On this particular night, at five past seven, eight people have gathered in the largest conference room on the third floor. Aside from Interim Head Karen Eiken Hornby, the CID is represented by two detective inspectors, Karl Björken and Evald Johannisen, and two constables, Astrid Nielsen and Cornelis Loots. Also present is Head of the Technical Services Unit Sören Larsen and Coroner Kneought Brodal and, via phone, the on-duty prosecutor, Dineke Vegen.

  Karen looks at the group that has spread out around the long conference table. A platter of dry sandwiches, a coffee urn and a rickety tower of plastic mugs form a bleak still life under the fluorescent lights. No one looks tempted to dig in.

  ‘OK, I think we’re all here now,’ she says. ‘Welcome and thank you for coming. We’re all tired and there’s no reason to drag this out, but we do need to take stock at this point. I’d like to start with some basic facts.’

  No one speaks; the only sounds are a chair creaking ominously when Evald Johannisen shifts in it, Kneought Brodal’s stifled yawn and the rustling of Astrid Nielsen fishing a lozenge out of a bag. Studying her tall, blonde, provocatively fit colleague, Karen instinctively straightens up and sucks her tummy in before clearing her throat and pressing on.

  ‘At 11.55 a.m. today, emergency services contacted the chief inspector. Six minutes earlier, at 11.49, they had received a call from a man by the name of Harald Steen, a resident of Langevik, regarding a woman having fallen over and hurt herself in her kitchen. According to the operator, Steen had been unable to say whether the woman was badly injured, since he could only see her through a window. Or, rather, he’d only been able to see her feet and lower legs.’

  Another yawn from Brodal and then one more, this time from Cornelis Loots, who tries to hide his open mouth behind his hand. Karen feels her confidence take a wobble. This isn’t about me, it’s just been a long day, she reminds herself and carries on.

  ‘Wisely, the operator decided to contact the chief inspector in addition to dispatching an ambulance. At 12.25, constables Inguldsen and Lange arrived at the scene, ahead of the ambulance. After a forced entry, they quickly established that they were dealing with a dead woman, sprawled on the kitchen floor with extensive facial injuries. Harald Steen was still at the house and was able to identify the deceased as Susanne Smeed.’

  So far, nothing Karen has said is news to anyone in the room, but the name of their boss’s ex-wife still provokes a general creaking of chairs as several people shift uncomfortably.

  ‘And how the fuck did he know it was her? Did the idiots let the old man in?’

  The interjection makes everyone turn to Evald Johannisen. Karen studies her colleague’s raised eyebrows, hears the dissatisfaction in his voice and knows that Johannisen isn’t going to make it easy for her.

  ‘No,’ she replies calmly, ‘but Susanne Smeed was his closest neighbour, and he knew she lived alone. But sure, you’re right, Evald, he assumed it was Susanne Smeed.’

  ‘And we do know it was Susanne Smeed,’ a sharp voice says from the other end of the table. ‘Can we move on?’

  Kneought Brodal is slumped in his chair with half-closed eyes, his hands folded over his substantial gut.

  ‘Thank you, Kneought,’ Karen says, ‘we’ll get to your report in just a moment. Yes, the reason it’s me standing here and not Jounas Smeed is because the deceased woman is Jounas’s ex-wife. As a consequence, the Chief of Police has decided that Jounas Smeed will be placed on leave while the investigation is ongoing and that I will act in his place and that as part of my duties, I will also lead this investigation.’

  The room is still dead silent. Karen resists the urge to have a sip of water and forges ahead.

  ‘I realise this is a difficult situation for all of us, and to make matters worse, this case is, as you will all be aware, of great interest to the media. It’s therefore more important than ever that we have no leaks. Until further notice, Viggo Haugen will be dealing with the press. I will be keeping him and the Head of Media abreast with the investigation.’

  ‘The press is going to be livid,’ Karl Björken says with a wry smile. ‘They always want to speak directly to whoever’s in charge of the investigation; they’ll to do everything they can to get around Haugen.’

  ‘Either way, that’s how we’re going to play this,’ Karen says curtly. ‘Everything will be channelled through the Head of Media and Viggo Haugen; neither you nor I will answer any questions from the press, until we are told otherwise. No leaks about timings, murder weapons or methods. No comments about Jounas as a person or what his marriage to Susanne was like or anything along those lines. This time, we’re going to keep our mouths shut. OK?’

  She’s surprised by how authoritative she sounds. This is exactly the tone that riles her the most coming from her superiors: pre-emptively scolding.

  ‘Then I think it’s time to hear from you, Kneought, before you doze off,’ she adds with a wry smile and reaches for her water.

  The coroner starts his slideshow; everyone turns to the big screen on one of the walls. There’s a collective gas
p. The picture shows Susanne Smeed, on her back, her face smashed in and her neck at a sharp angle against the matte black edge of a large cast-iron stove. Through the bloody mess, what remains of her broken teeth forms a grotesque smile.

  Karen notices Cornelis Loots’s freckly skin turning paler. He quickly looks away and runs his hand through his strawberry blond hair a few times, as though trying to distract himself. Sitting next to him, Karl Björken constitutes a contrast in both appearance and reaction; his raven hair is neatly combed and his dark eyes stare unwaveringly at the screen. Only someone who knows him well would know how to interpret the frantically working muscle in his jaw. Karl Björken is by no means indifferent.

  Even Astrid Nielsen looks like she’s lost her cool self-control for a split second.

  ‘My God,’ she mumbles and reaches for her bag of lozenges.

  ‘I concluded the autopsy about thirty minutes ago,’ Kneought Brodal announces. ‘I will type up the full report tomorrow, but I can give you the keynote right now. And yes, I’ll try to use language even the Doggerland police can understand,’ he adds to answer a question no one asked, but which obviously comes up often enough to irk him.

  Brodal clicks to the next picture, a close-up of Susanne Smeed’s face; Karen forces herself to study it again. She’s painfully aware everyone’s eyes will soon turn from the picture to her. Looking for some kind of answer she doesn’t have, expecting her to provide leadership.

  So it’s my responsibility to figure out who offed the prick’s ex-wife, while he sits at home knocking back glass after glass of whiskey and refuses to cooperate. And I don’t even know how to lead myself.

  ‘As I said, it is Susanne we’re seeing in the pictures,’ she hears Brodal say at the other end of the room, now with a crack in his voice, as though it’s about to break. He clears his throat and continues. ‘She and I were closely acquainted since back when she was married to Jounas, so I was able to identify her, despite her injuries, but we will be confirming her identity using DNA as well.’