Don't Wake Me

by Martin Krüger

  Then the door swung open. Dr Gundersen’s red hair was hidden under a black woolly hat and her cheeks were slightly flushed. She looked as though she’d been out for a while in the cold. ‘He’s bleeding,’ Jasmin explained. ‘We need to take a look at him right now.’

  Together, they helped Henriksen into the surgery on the ground floor of the house and lowered him into a chair. Dr Gundersen removed the wet bandage while Jasmin took Henriksen’s phone and wallet out of his rain-sodden coat.

  Gundersen glanced at her. ‘You’re a doctor, right?’

  Jasmin nodded. ‘I’m an anaesthetist.’

  ‘You’re bleeding.’ Dr Gundersen pointed at Jasmin’s right hand.

  Only now did Jasmin realise there was blood flowing down her fingers. It was smeared over the front of her raincoat too.

  When did that happen?

  ‘Here,’ said Dr Gundersen. ‘Some bandages.’

  Jasmin took them and began tending to her own injury. Once her hand was firmly wrapped in gauze, Jasmin saw that the doctor was busy replacing the bandage on Henriksen’s head and she took the opportunity to examine the inspector’s phone. Her fingers touched the display as she looked at his list of recent calls, hoping to find out who had been trying to get hold of him so urgently during the journey.

  Larsen, it said.

  The historian.

  Hadn’t Henriksen told her he didn’t know the man? So why did the inspector have his number saved on his phone?

  And a few lines below it on the call list: G. Yrsen.

  ‘What are you doing over there?’ Dr Gundersen asked sharply. Jasmin looked up guiltily and saw the doctor giving her a penetrating look.

  She doesn’t believe your story. She isn’t sure what to make of you.

  ‘I’m trying to find the numbers for the officers Henriksen arrived on the island with. They need to know what’s happened.’

  ‘I understand that you’ll need to contact them,’ Dr Gundersen retorted, ‘but this isn’t the time for making phone calls. Right now’ – she beckoned Jasmin over to her – ‘you need to make sure he gets some rest. You’re a doctor; you should look after him. It’s harmless, just a minor flesh wound on the back of his head.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t keep him here,’ Dr Gundersen answered. ‘Not right now, anyway. I have urgent patient visits to make. Why don’t you take him home with you?’

  ‘Oh,’ Jasmin replied. She hesitated for a few moments, surprised at Dr Gundersen’s suggestion, but then she came to a decision. You owe it to him. After all, it was your idea – yours alone. He came to the cemetery for your sake. He wanted to take you straight home, and it was thanks to your detour that he ended up getting hurt.

  ‘OK, I’ll take him with me and keep an eye on him,’ she agreed. ‘I’ll let his colleagues know once we get to my place.’

  ‘Your place?’

  ‘The house on the coast,’ Jasmin replied. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Oh, of course. Where they found the body. The old house,’ said Dr Gundersen, lost in thought.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Just thinking out loud.’

  Once again, those flashes of light suddenly appeared before her eyes – the smell of petrol and fire, of burning fabric and . . .

  Screaming.

  For the first time, she heard screaming. And it wasn’t the homeless man she’d run over on that horrible night. It was somebody else.

  Remember: seven, not two.

  Jasmin felt like her legs were about to give way and she held out her arms in search of support. She felt the cold metal of a kidney dish that Dr Gundersen pressed into her hands.

  ‘It’s perfectly natural that you would react like this,’ the doctor explained in a calming, professional voice. ‘What with the shock, the journey here.’

  ‘That’s not it though! I – I don’t know what’s wrong with me!’ Jasmin shoved the kidney dish aside, and it fell to the floor with a loud clatter that echoed painfully through her mind.

  ‘Are you all right, Ms Hansen?’

  ‘I keep seeing things that shouldn’t be there! I can smell things I shouldn’t be able to smell. I . . .’ She took a deep breath and tried to dismiss these thoughts – to find her way back into the here and now.

  You’re standing in a doctor’s surgery; you’ve rushed over here with a detective inspector who’s been attacked by a mysterious drifter.

  That’s all.

  But was it really all?

  Jasmin’s thoughts turned involuntarily to Gabriela Yrsen, the artist with the gift of second sight.

  And now, as insane as it seems, you’re starting to see things too.

  Yes, that really is insane.

  It’s more than insane.

  It’s something you shouldn’t even be thinking about.

  Seven, not two.

  ‘What if she’s here? What if Hanna Jansen is here?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The doctor turned around to face her and Jasmin saw she was holding a dangerous-looking syringe in her hand. A drop of fluid glittered at the tip of the needle. ‘Who is Hanna Jansen?’

  ‘A person from my past. Someone we all thought we’d seen the back of.’

  ‘Is she threatening you?’

  Jasmin looked out into the rain and heard Henriksen breathing evenly behind her. ‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

  Chapter 8

  As the hours went by, Jasmin gradually began to understand what it meant to her that Paul was gone, that her son was missing. It was a vast, gaping wound inside her, one that would never heal.

  When she arrived at her house by the beach with Bonnie and Henriksen, the realisation hit her so hard that her breath caught for a few moments.

  Something was urging her to run out into the rain and call his name. Some part of her wanted to believe that Paul would come trotting around the corner if only she shouted loud enough – his hair a little tousled, his coat and his knees a little dirty from where he’d fallen over, but alive, and maybe even grinning at all the fun he’d had on his adventure. And she would ruffle his messy hair and take him into her arms, tell him how much she loved him, how much she’d missed him, and that he never had to worry about her being angry with him as long as he always came back to her.

  But of course she didn’t go out and call for Paul, and of course when she stepped over the threshold with Henriksen she found her house cold and empty.

  An old pipe gurgled inside the wall and the gas heating in the cellar sprang to life with a rumble, like a monster hiding in its cave.

  Jasmin accompanied Henriksen down the hall and into the living room, where she helped him lower himself carefully into the armchair by the fireplace. The fire had almost gone out, so Jasmin added a few more logs.

  ‘Hendrik? How are you feeling?’

  ‘The way anyone would feel after escaping so narrowly with their life,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘What is it people say in situations like this? I could feel death breathing down my neck.’

  ‘It’s a minor scrape. It looks worse than it is.’ Jasmin watched as Bonnie settled down onto the rug with a quiet grunt. ‘I’m sorry it turned out like this though. If only I hadn’t come up with that stupid idea about the graveyard—’

  Henriksen shook his head and grimaced, since even that small gesture caused him pain. ‘It isn’t your fault . . .’

  ‘Jasmin,’ she said quietly.

  ‘You should tell my colleagues.’ He gestured at his phone, which she’d put on the coffee table. ‘They need to know what’s happened. Dial the most recently called number and put them on loudspeaker.’

  ‘Sure. But after that you need to rest. I’ll look after you.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ Henriksen coughed and instantly groaned in pain.

  Jasmin brought out some freshly brewed herbal tea and told him to sit as still as he could while she contacted his colleagues. Then she walked over to the French windows with his phone.

/>   Larsen. Yrsen.

  Their numbers in his list of contacts.

  And between them, just like he’d said, she saw one of his colleagues. She tapped the name.

  The male voice that emerged from the small speaker on the phone belonged to Arne Boeckermann. She told him what had happened to Henriksen.

  ‘He shot at him?’ Boeckermann repeated in a sharp tone. ‘Madness. This is madness. Nothing like this has ever happened here before.’

  ‘Hasn’t it?’ Jasmin asked pointedly. ‘Hasn’t it really?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jasmin remembered what Larsen had told her: The islanders have always been experts at keeping secrets. They store them up, guard them carefully.

  ‘You get to hear certain things, if you travel around enough and keep your ears open.’

  ‘Put Henriksen on. I need to talk to him.’

  Jasmin looked at the reflection in the glass. The inspector had laid his head on a cushion and shut his eyes.

  ‘I can’t right now,’ she said. ‘He needs to rest. You should launch a manhunt. Everything seems to keep centring on the same person – the drifter everyone’s been talking about. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was behind Paul’s disappearance too. You go about your work, and Henriksen will get in touch when he’s back on his feet.’

  ‘Ms Ha—’

  Jasmin hung up.

  It had felt good to talk to him like that, to hear the arrogance fade from his voice, but now she felt exhausted.

  Her thoughts turned briefly to Karl Sandvik, the old grocer who ran the village shop. She’d promised to drop by and look at his back, but now, under these circumstances, she barely had the strength even to call him to postpone, or to ask him to help look for Paul.

  Suddenly she remembered the letters on the gravestones. Jasmin looked up the photos Henriksen had taken on his phone and went through them one by one.

  N. N. N. N. H. S. J. E. A. A. A.

  It was a name, she realised. It couldn’t be anything else.

  And the name was . . .

  Jasmin’s breath caught.

  No, it couldn’t be true.

  When she rearranged the letters – and if she wasn’t mistaken – she saw the words Hanna Jansen. Sprayed on the gravestones in red paint, the name of that woman.

  The woman Jørgen had once had an affair with.

  That was a long time ago, all in the past.

  Wasn’t it?

  If Hanna Jansen was behind all this then she had to get in touch with Jørgen. You trust him, don’t you? He’s the first person you should tell about this. She put Henriksen’s phone back on the coffee table and took out her own.

  She needed to ask Jørgen to tell her the truth.

  ‘Hey, honey,’ she greeted him when he picked up after the second ring.

  ‘Jasmin, what—’

  She remembered the background noise she’d heard during her conversation with him on the previous evening. It had sounded like he’d been in a bar with another woman.

  ‘Hanna Jansen,’ she said abruptly. ‘Does that ring any bells with you?’

  Jørgen hesitated. Jasmin felt it was too long, his hesitation – too long and too guilty. ‘What about her? We’ve already talked about this so often. I thought we’d settled everything. I’ve apologised so many times, for—’

  ‘She might be here. She might still be trying to get me out of the way.’ Jasmin sounded so cold that she was amazed at her own tone of voice.

  ‘But that’s impossible. She left. Moved away, to somewhere in Sweden. She’s gone. For good.’

  ‘Think about it, Jørgen. I’m begging you, please think about it.’

  She hung up before he could say anything else.

  ‘They’ve launched a manhunt for the drifter,’ she told Henriksen, sitting down beside him on the sofa. ‘Boeckermann wanted to talk to you but I didn’t let him.’

  Henriksen jerked his head up and looked at her through weary eyes. ‘You did what?’

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ Jasmin replied with a faint smile, and was relieved when Henriksen smiled back. Her words dispelled the tension between them.

  ‘I’ll make us another pot of tea,’ she said. ‘You stay put.’

  ‘Whatever you say, doctor.’ He laid his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes.

  Hanna Jansen.

  The drifter.

  Minsøy.

  Jasmin entered the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under her feet. The table was bare, but the blue plate Paul ate from was still in the sink where she’d left it.

  He might never use it again.

  With that thought, Jasmin was overwhelmed by a feeling of desperation that passed in shockwaves through her whole body. He’s gone, she thought, and all you’ve done so far is follow a trail that seems as bizarre as it is illogical.

  You need to confront either Henriksen or Larsen with the truth. Maybe Yrsen too, if you dare to go and see her again.

  But you have to do something.

  Jasmin made the tea – a herbal blend she’d bought from Sandvik’s grocery store – and carried the large porcelain pot into the living room along with two mugs. Steam curled in silvery spirals towards the ceiling.

  Henriksen was looking out of the window. The rain was beating against the glass and the thick fog made it impossible to deploy a helicopter. ‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said softly. ‘Maybe they really are conspiring against us in this wretched place.’

  Jasmin nodded, but to avoid replying, she lifted her cup to her lips and took a sip. The hot tea scalded her tongue. The triangle symbol on his phone, his contact list, the letters that spelled out the name Hanna Jansen.

  It was all too much.

  You can’t trust him any more than the others. He might just be trying to gain your confidence.

  ‘Maybe we should confront them with it. With the truth.’ Henriksen didn’t take his eyes off the window, as if there were a secret hidden out there, behind the rain.

  There’s only one trail left for you to follow. Into the sanatorium – or wherever the remains of it are. The picture Larsen showed you had that symbol on it, the one that matches the origami sculpture the kidnapper left behind.

  But can you trust Henriksen with this information?

  Eventually, she decided she could. ‘The old sanatorium. The west wing is still standing.’

  ‘And what do you expect to find there?’

  ‘The kidnapper left that origami sculpture in the house. The open triangle. Larsen showed me photos of the old sanatorium and one of the patients’ – she almost said ‘inmates’ – ‘had made the same figure. There has to be something there.’

  ‘Of course – but it’s a trap. Or at least it could be one.’ Henriksen touched his neck and grimaced.

  ‘Don’t scratch,’ Jasmin admonished him. ‘I know, but what else can I do? What if he never gets in touch or makes any demands?’

  ‘Not enough time has passed for that yet.’

  Just then, Jasmin heard a rattle that she instantly recognised. It was the letterbox in the front door.

  She and Henriksen exchanged a look.

  Then she hurried out of the room.

  Chapter 9

  A white envelope was lying on the floorboards by the front door. Droplets of rain had speckled the paper, forming an irregular pattern. Jasmin opened the door and peered out into the downpour, which cloaked the path and the road beyond it in a grey haze. Nothing.

  The drainpipe running down the front wall made a gurgling sound, while water dripped from a leak in the gutter onto the paving stones that Jørgen had laid in front of the house years ago. Patches of moss had started to appear on them. Now that Paul had disappeared, Jørgen might never get around to fixing the place up.

  Maybe he’ll blame you.

  You shouldn’t have told him about Hanna Jansen.

  If Paul never comes back – or if they find his body – then it won’t just be your son you’ll lose. You know it could come to that. Y
ou should start to prepare yourself.

  She reached nervously for the envelope. The paper was wet and felt like the skin of a corpse – cold and clammy, with a repulsive waxy texture. Jasmin carried it into the kitchen and opened it with a sharp knife.

  The sheet of paper she shook out onto the kitchen table was covered with letters someone had cut out of a magazine and glued into place.

  I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE, it said in large, uneven characters. Some were in colour, others were black, and each one had been cut out from a different page.

  Jasmin felt panic wash over her like a wave from the icy Norwegian Sea. She had to clutch the back of a kitchen chair to prevent herself from falling to the floor as all the strength drained from her legs. Slumping into the chair, she stared at the page.

  Then she turned it over in the hope she’d find more on the other side, but there was nothing. Only those five words jeering at her painfully, like red-hot needles piercing straight into her soul.

  ‘Ms Hansen?’

  Henriksen had followed her into the kitchen unnoticed. He was pale, but seemed steady on his feet. It was too late to hide the threatening letter from him as he’d already spotted it on the table.

  ‘Did that arrive just now?’ he asked, his eyes opening wide.

  Jasmin nodded. She felt hot tears running down her cheeks, like drops of lava. ‘It must be from him. The drifter – the kidnapper. Why would anybody else send it? He’s mocking me.’

  It had to be from him or from Jansen – or maybe from both of them, if they were working together.

  ‘Did you see anybody at the door?’

  Jasmin shook her head. ‘No. There was no one there.’

  ‘Shit.’ Henriksen took his phone from his pocket. ‘I’ll let my colleagues know he was here again.’

  He went to the living room to make his call, and although Jasmin couldn’t make out exactly what he was saying through the closed door, she had the impression he was irritated. It even sounded like he was having an argument.