Fatal Isles Read online

  With a deftness that surprises her, she skirts around the fact that not only Jounas’s car but the man himself stayed in town that night and that his walk home hadn’t taken place until the next morning.

  Silence falls in the conference room once more. No one asks the question out loud: does Jounas have anyone who can corroborate his claims? No one suspects that the only person who could give him an alibi – at least until twenty past seven in the morning – is Karen Eiken Hornby. On the other hand, it makes no difference, she tells herself. The question is what Jounas Smeed did after she left the hotel room.

  15

  Karen is sitting in her car, staring straight ahead. The streetlamps along Redehusgate twinkle faintly; beyond them, she sees the waxing moon over a dark Holländer Park, and beyond that, cars pass by occasionally on their way to the better lit Odinsgate. The town centre has been wrapped in a sluggish Sunday blanket all day and is now ready for bed. She’s bone-weary; her hands rest heavily on the wheel. It’s half ten and home’s almost an hour’s drive away. The taste of two dry sandwiches and the watery coffee from the urn coats her mouth; she bitterly remembers that morning’s promise to start a healthier life. Was that really this morning? It feels like days ago.

  She glances down at the passenger seat where the banana and can of Coca-Cola she brought from home are still sitting next to her handbag. The banana has darkened to a brownish black and emits a tart smell as the car grows warmer. She contemplates chucking it out the window, but can’t be bothered and leaves it where it is. Instead, she reaches for the Coke can, listens to the hiss when she lifts the tab and drinks a couple of sips of the sweet, lukewarm liquid before putting the can down in the cupholder between the seats with a burp and grabbing the gearstick. Then she aborts the movement and rummages through her handbag instead. She puts the cigarette between her lips, lights it and takes a deep drag. She reasons that new weeks and new habits always start on a Monday. There’s still one hour of Sunday left.

  She drives at consistently top speed, turning off the high beams whenever the occasional car on its way to Dunker appears on the sporadically lit road, focusing on staying awake while she goes over the events of the day. Waking up in the hotel room feels remote now, almost unreal, and she has no desire to return to that memory. She has also managed to push the memory of her early morning run-in with Inguldsen and Lange into the hazy backdrop of her mind – probably out of sheer self-preservation – but the rest of her memories from the day are still sharp.

  Then she suddenly comes to think of her conversation with Viggo Haugen. During the phone call, all her thoughts had revolved around the fact that Susanne Smeed had been murdered and how on earth she was going to get through the next twenty-four hours without throwing up. Not until now has she had time to ponder why Haugen picked her to lead the investigation. And to take over for Jounas as head of the department. Why not Johannisen or Karl? Granted, they were her juniors, but Haugen could easily have come up with some kind of justification. He’d done so before.

  Her previous attempts to make head of the department had certainly not been successful.

  Karen’s promotion to detective inspector had taken place under Wilhelm Kaster’s leadership. It’s possible he thought of her as his natural successor once it was time for him to retire. But then, four years before his longed-for last day of employment, he died of a heart attack and all plans for Karen’s further advancement perished with him. Instead, Kaster was swiftly succeeded by Olof Kvarnhammar, who seemed bewildered by women in the workplace; the higher they’d managed to climb, the more perplexed he was. And yet, even Olof Kvarnhammar realised he could hardly demote Karen. But there were other methods of exclusion. In the years that followed, she was systematically overlooked when the most interesting cases were assigned, routinely ignored in meetings, constantly picked on because of her lack of street experience. The fact that she had successfully completed her police training, had done six months in the field and held a bachelor’s degree in criminology from the London Met meant little compared to the years her colleagues had spent patrolling the streets of Doggerland on sore feet. That she, prompted by a direct question by a journalist, had confirmed that the gender equality within the Dogger police authority left much to be desired, had done nothing to increase her popularity with management. The fact that the quote was twenty years old, given when she was a student at the police academy, hadn’t seemed to make any difference. For the crime of shitting where you eat, as Kvarnhammar put it, there is no statute of limitations.

  But Karen’s biggest mistake, the black mark against her name, was that she’d sold out; she’d quit. Had left the country, even, and spent several years abroad. She couldn’t just waltz back in like nothing had happened, pretending she was one of the boys.

  When Kvarnhammar passed away, too – in his case from a ruptured aorta – after less than five years at the helm, Karen had sensed a new dawn. While the boys went down the pub to drink to his memory, she’d gone home, sat down at the kitchen table with a large whiskey and written an application for the top job. But then Jounas Smeed had appeared out of nowhere. By Haugen’s reckoning, six years as a uniformed officer, an unfinished law degree and three years as deputy head of the Economic Crime Unit made him the best qualified candidate to take over as head of the CID. Also, as Haugen put it when introducing their new boss, ‘even during his years as a patrolman, Smeed had always put his best foot forward’ (here he’d paused for polite laughter), and if that wasn’t enough, Smeed had shown ‘great organisational progressivism and farsightedness’ during his years at the Economic Crime Unit and was also able to demonstrate ‘proven leadership skills’. Karen had stopped listening when he said ‘patrolman’.

  She still can’t entirely shake the feeling that the main reason for Jounas Smeed’s elevation was that he was a member of one of Doggerland’s most prominent families. On the other hand, if she’s being completely honest, she’s never been 100 per cent interested in the top job. The thought of drawing up guidelines, setting priorities and leading the most complex investigations – and proving that she could do all of it a hell of a lot better than Olof Kvarnhammar – had been the reason she’d written that application. But the other aspects of it were less tempting: HR surveys, salary negotiations, regular reporting to the Chief of Police, having to suck up to politicians and, worst of all, having to manage employee relations. Her disappointment at not getting the job had quickly been replaced by relief.

  And now, she’s in the shit anyway.

  But only temporarily, she reminds herself and lights another cigarette. The sooner this case is closed, the sooner Jounas Smeed can come back to work and she can have her freedom back.

  16

  Panting, Karen leans forward with her hands on her knees and gazes out at the sea. A freight ship is slowly gliding along the dark band between sky and sea at the horizon. She slowly straightens up and feels the wild thumping of her heart subside as her breathing returns to normal. Two and a half miles along the forest path that hugs the coast, straight north from Langevik. Just two and a half miles, and yet sweat is streaming down her back and her mouth is dry. It’s been a long time since she did any form of exercise, she realises. Too many months and too many cigarettes ago.

  For a few minutes, she enjoys the cool wind against her flushed cheeks, but then she shudders when her baggy, sweat-soaked T-shirt is pressed against her body. She pushes her hair out of her face and looks longingly over at the cliffs. A quick glance at her wristwatch: twenty past six. She still has time for a short sit-down on the leeward side of the promontory before she has to jog back. If she’s lucky, there might be rainwater in one of the crevices.

  She drinks the ice-cold water out of a cupped hand and settles in with her knees pulled up and her back against the rough rock wall. Just sky, sea, cliffs and an unbroken horizon. And yet, she could identify this particular spot among thousands like it. Every part of it is etched into her since childhood. And it was to this place she retu
rned many years later, when her life was abruptly pulled out from under her. Only here could she continue to exist without John and Mathis. It’s been eleven years now. She still screams their names at the sea sometimes.

  She never thinks of the sea as blue. Down on Frisel and even in Dunker and along the entire west coast up toward Ravenby, the sea is different from here. There, white breakers skip merrily across deep blue seas and white cotton-ball clouds drift across the clear blue sky. There, the rolling hills are green and the trees grow tall and lush. But here, just a few miles north-east of the capital, everything hugs the ground. Here, stunted pine trees creep along the cliffs, seemingly bent double by the wind. Here, any plant that battles its way out of the meagre soil cowers to escape the violent gusts. And for the few days a year when a cloud-free sky colours the sea blue, this landscape feels almost alien to her, unctuous and untrustworthy, as though it were trying to dissemble.

  Here, the colour palette is different from the greens that dominate Heimö’s fertile inland and from Frisel’s yellow sandstone. This place is as rich in variety as either of them, but only a trained eye can discern the colour splendour of a landscape consisting of granite grey cliffs eternally repelling the open sea.

  Karen sees it. Her eyes have learnt to distinguish between the different shades, note how the sea changes from silver to tin to lead. She notices the unassuming lustre of creeping willow and bulrush. She sees the hints of violet in the rock crevices and the changes the seasons bring with the thrift of early summer and the purple loosestrife of high summer. And now, when the plants are going to seed along the cliffs and summer is inevitably drawing to a close, she will look further inland, where heather covers the hills. This is where she belongs.

  Safe in that knowledge, she gets up and starts jogging back.

  17

  Langevik, 1970

  ‘Is she ever getting up?! I can’t take it anymore!’

  Anne-Marie picks up the pillow she’s been pressing against her ear and hurls it across the room. Screaming and sobbing, she starts crawling out of bed. Per pulls one of his arms out from under the duvet, reaches out and grabs her arm.

  ‘Calm down, it’ll pass,’ he mumbles drowsily.

  She whips around and stares at him, accusingly, as though he were complicit.

  ‘Pass? When? I’m never going to get used to it.’

  Her yelling drowns out the screaming coming from the bedroom next door. Suddenly, the house is dead silent.

  ‘I meant Love’s colic will pass,’ he says patiently. ‘Disa told me just yesterday that he’s going to be better any day now. Hear that? He’s stopped crying. Tomas is up, I can hear him walking around. Can we go back to sleep now?’

  ‘Disa told me,’ she mimics back at him. ‘Tomas is up. Can you hear yourself? The only person who’s not lifting a finger is Ingela.’

  Her voice breaks into falsetto, cutting shrilly through the night, and he thinks to himself that it must carry through the walls, slip through the cracks under the doors. He wonders if Tomas can hear it, maybe Ingela, too. Per Lindgren lets go of his wife’s arm and pulls himself up into sitting position. With a soft sigh, he turns on the bedside lamp.

  ‘She’s breastfeeding,’ he says gently, well aware that every word he says risks adding fuel to the fire. ‘It can be very tiring and the boys are only just over a year apart.’

  ‘I’m so glad you know all about what it’s like to breastfeed. Because I guess I’m never going to find out. Is that why you’re so keen to watch? You don’t think I notice?’

  He feels a pang of guilt. Not because Anne-Marie’s right, but because he can so clearly see how he can use the accusation to turn the tables and take her place as the martyr. Now, he’s the wounded one, and he’s going to wrench the weapon out of her hands. He does so by not replying. Instead, he turns his head away and stares blankly out the window. It’s already light outside and their makeshift blind is unable to keep the June night out. Without looking at his wife, he knows her fury and frustration have already turned into anxiety.

  ‘I’m sorry, Per,’ she says. ‘I know you would never . . .’

  He lets her words fill the room before turning back to her.

  ‘You know we talked about how it might be difficult for you with all the children. That you might not be able to handle it,’ he says.

  ‘But I can. I can handle it. It’s just that . . .’

  Per Lindgren studies his wife with a mix of tenderness and annoyance. Now that’s she’s stopped yelling, now that her anger has subsided and been replaced by weakness, he can handle the situation. Do what he does best. Comfort her.

  ‘Come here,’ he says and lifts up the duvet.

  She hesitates, but only for a moment, before snuggling in next to him with her cold back against his warm stomach. He pulls the duvet over them both, up over their heads, and burrows his nose into the back of her neck. Her hair is slightly damp, he realises; he starts to caress her shoulders. Pretends not to hear when she mumbles:

  ‘It’s not fair, it’s like babies are just shooting out of her, and she’s not the slightest bit grateful.’

  ‘Shh,’ he says and continues to caress her back. Feels her thin shoulders like bird’s wings under his hands. Shudders and is instantly ashamed of his reaction when he realises Anne-Marie is now crying silently.

  ‘She doesn’t even seem to care about them. Tomas is practically looking after them by himself, even though they’re not his. The only thing Ingela does is breastfeed,’ Anne-Marie says and snivels. ‘I know you’re not looking at her, but why does she have to flaunt it all the time?’

  And while his hands pull up Anne-Marie’s nightgown and the palms of his hands trace the virtually imperceptible curves of her thin body, he pictures it. Ingela, pushing back her flaming red hair before unbuttoning her blouse with one hand and lifting out a milk-filled breast. Her eyes meeting his as she does so.

  And with that image in his mind, Per Lindgren enters his wife.

  18

  Karen gets off the lift on the third floor, her legs trembling and her hair still damp. The incline on her way back from the cliffs was tough, but after a quick shower, a bowl of porridge and some strong coffee, the feeling of satisfaction still lingers. New week, new habits and at least this time she’s starting off well.

  Not even the sight of Astrid Nielsen, who probably got up at five and ran twice as far, and who already looks absorbed in her work, can ruin her good mood this morning.

  ‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘Are we the first ones here?’

  ‘Morning, boss. No, I think Johannisen’s probably just getting another coffee.’

  Since when does he get in before eight? Karen feels her smile fade. She walks over to her desk in the open-plan office, takes off her jacket and hangs it over the back of her chair. Just as the familiar jingle announces that her computer has started, Evald Johannisen appears behind her, holding a cup of coffee.

  ‘So you’re not taking over the boss’s office?’ he says with feigned surprise.

  Before she can reply, there is a ding from the stairwell and Karen spots Karl Björken and Cornelis Loots stepping out of the lift together. They walk in, loudly and intensely discussing what sounds like next weekend’s bets on the ponies at Rakne. The brief interruption is enough to stop her from snapping at Johannisen. Instead, she replies calmly:

  ‘No, Evald, I’m actually hoping this situation will be over so quickly it won’t be worth the effort of moving offices. I’d have thought you shared that hope.’

  He turns without replying and stalks off toward his desk.

  Twenty minutes later, the members of the investigation team take their seats around the conference table with their coffee cups, notepads, laptops and rumpled packets of nicotine gum. The only one missing is Evald Johannisen, who is still out in the hallway, talking on his phone. Karen has, with Cornelis’s help, brought in a big whiteboard and rolled it over to the end of the room. While they wait for Johannisen to finish hi
s call, she puts up a few photographs, using round magnets, next to a map of Langevik and the surrounding area. The first picture is a blown-up passport photo of Susanne Smeed. Underneath that, she puts up a photograph showing Susanne dead on her kitchen floor and a third picture showing a blood-smeared cast-iron poker with blonde hairs stuck to it. Next to them, she writes the names Jounas Smeed, Sigrid Smeed, Harald Steen and Angela Novak. At the bottom, she adds – for lack of anything more useful – a series of pictures from Susanne’s house and the plot of land it’s on.

  Not a lot to go on. Nothing at all, really.

  ‘You’ll be able to add another picture soon,’ says a voice from the door. ‘They found the car.’

  Evald Johannisen has swapped his habitually sour look for an expression of cautious excitement. Now he enters the room and shuts the door behind him.

  ‘It was in a car park up in Moerbeck,’ he says and takes a seat. ‘They’ve cordoned it off and the technicians are on their way.’

  ‘Good. Could you ask them to have an extra close look at the starter to see if it makes any particular kind of noise?’

  Johannisen eyebrows shoot up, but he nods and makes a note.

  ‘Do we have a passenger list from the cruise ship?’

  ‘Yes, unfortunately,’ Cornelis Loots says gloomily. ‘There were 187 passengers on the ship.’

  Karl whistles.

  ‘One hundred and eighty-seven? That’s going to take a while to go through.’

  ‘Yes, and as far as cruise ships go, it’s a small one. Apparently, that’s the latest trend, small ship cruising. Compact but ridiculously exclusive.

  ‘Who did you talk to?’

  ‘First the harbour master and then the onboard head of security. He was very helpful, but at the same time pretty amused at the thought of one of his guests being involved in a murder. Apparently, the average age on board is pretty high. Mainly well-to-do American pensioners who have turned taking cruises into a lifestyle, but some Scandinavians, too, and Dutch and Italian people. I’m not entirely sure what it is you want us to do with the list.’