“I’m sorry it took so long, I only have a gas hob, you see. Don’t like electric kettles. Just not the same for tea.”
Huakaas nodded in agreement.
Mrs. Peterson placed the tray on the coffee table and took a seat opposite him. She smoothed down her pleated skirt and waited patiently. This, too, Arne’d seen twice this morning. As if briefed by a lawyer: say nothing, answer only those questions asked of you. Almost as if she was a suspect. Huakaas had not gone back to interviewing the women, because they had offered no real valuable information at the time. Each had been distraught and heartbroken. A mess of tears and emotion. None could fathom why someone would kill their spouse. Today, however, just a few years later, these same women were reborn. Mention of the brutal murder of their husbands did not elicit pain anew. No fresh tears were shed. And on the walls, no shrine or memorial to their beloved. Not a single picture.
It was this absence of pain and lack of longing for the victims that shouted in the otherwise silent homes. They were glad these men were gone.
Is this how Aslaug’s home was decorated? Had his own mother discarded pictures of his father following his death? Far too long ago for Arne to remember. And he’d never been to Aslaug’s house. In fact, he’d never been allowed so much as inside the front porch. Was her house bare of any memory of him? Had his daughter grown up never even glancing upon a small framed photo of her father? Had his one flaw damned him to oblivion? Did all the years of hard work, a home, food, and support mean nothing? An otherwise faultless résumé blotted by something out of his control? Anger knotted Arne’s stomach.
“Detective Huakaas?”
Arne flicked his gaze from the tray to the woman in the chair.
“You had some questions for me? Though, it was a long time ago, now. Not sure of what help I can be.”
The detective wet his lips, the question waiting on the tip of his tongue. He took a deep breath. “Mrs. Peterson, I have to ask you a few personal questions, if I may?”
“Please,” she said, pouring the tea. “Cake?”
“No, thank you,” he replied. He wanted the cake. He wanted something sweet to take away the bitter taste in his mouth. The acrid questions to which he knew the answers. Taking her cake, somewhere deep inside, felt wrong. “I notice you don’t have any pictures of Boris in the house.”
Mrs. Peterson glanced around, never really focused on anything. Arne knew this was an act, a charade for his benefit. Pretending to not have really considered it before.
“I guess not, no.” She turned back to him. “Better not to dwell on the past.”
“Move on then? Keep your head up sort of thing?”
She nodded. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”
“And your children?”
“Their pictures are in the bedroom.”
“No, I mean, do they not want to see pictures of their father?”
She hesitated for a moment, then recomposed herself and sipped her tea. “We all felt it would be better to not dwell on what’d happened to him.”
Arne studied her face. She wore a practiced mask. One perfected for Joe Everyman on the street. One where no one would know what was really going on inside her head or her home. If his hunch was right, and Boris had struck her in anger or perhaps while drunk, she wasn’t going to tell Arne—at least without being asked directly. Was it pride? Shame? Some misguided loyalty, unwilling to sully his name—or maybe hers—perhaps?
“I have to ask,” Arne started, and then took a mouthful of hot tea to prolong the words from coming. “Was Boris ever ... abusive? Did he hit you, I mean?”
The question had been asked at the time, of every wife. Of course, it had. This was standard in any interrogation. They’d all said no. The murder had been raw then, though. The emotion red and flowing. And they would undoubtedly have feared of being a suspect. Here and now, however, everything was different.
Mrs. Peterson paused a moment and considered Arne with shrewd eyes. “Can you tell me a wife that hasn’t been hit by their husband, brother, uncle, friend, in one way or another?”
He hadn’t expected that answer. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s how men are. Brutish. Impulsive. Angry. When words fail, a quick slap and a forceful grab does the talking. They lash out, unable to think rationally anymore. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a wife, mother, girlfriend, sister, daughter, who hasn’t been on the receiving end of a man’s temper. You can’t help yourselves. Blame it on testosterone if you like.”
Arne screwed up his nose in annoyance. Had she just painted the entirety of men with the same brush? Not all of them were violent imbeciles, some just snapped. Being the man of the house was stressful. Sometimes, mistakes happened. Love and marriage were meant to be for better or worse. He flipped through his notebook, roughly turning pages.
“Don’t you have a son? Will he be violent, too?”
She held Arne’s gaze, a sudden sadness in her graying eyes. “I can only hope I have raised him better.”
“Hope?”
She tightened her lips. “Violence begets violence, Detective. You of all people should know this.”
Mrs. Peterson hadn’t answered him directly, but now she didn’t need to. Violence begets violence. Boris had done something. He’d hit her. Hurt her, maybe. Maybe her son had, too. The other two wives had acted similarly. A strange defiance to openly admit to the abuse, yet words spoken in code should the listener be willing to read between the lines. Hear what wasn’t said. Was this how Aslaug talked about him?
The bigger question was: should he actually be looking for a female killer? A woman pissed off with men who had decided to go on a little killing spree. A girl with abusive daddy issues? His lungs faltered and his stomach churned. An inherent guilt mixed with a deep-seated need to distance himself from such men pulsated through his core. There was murder one and murder two, and manslaughter. Shades of gray on a never-ending scale.
Silence hung in the air as they both waited for the other to speak. Sleet like so much torn up tissue paper began to bluster outside the window. The afternoon sun was stolen by thick ashen clouds.
It was as good an excuse as any.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Peterson,” Arne said as he stood.
“My pleasure,” she replied.
“I can see myself—” Arne began, but vibrations in his coat pocket interrupted.
Huakaas pulled the cell phone out and swiped the screen to answer. “Yes?”
“It’s Huus. There’s been a murder in Tøyen.”
“Our guy?” As he said the words, Arne almost wanted to change them to our girl.
“No. Well, maybe.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“Just get down here. Already texted the address.”
The line clicked off.
Arne made his excuses, left Mrs. Peterson’s home, and walked back to his car. In the few feet from her front door to the driver’s seat, he felt drowned. He hated sleet. Not rain, not snow, it stuck to everything and instantly soaked into clothes. Arne sat there in the cold, puffing on a freshly lit cigarette as he watched the wiper blades squeak back and forth across the windscreen. Then, he turned the key, revved the engine, and pulled away.
Huus flicked out a bright orange carrot from seemingly nowhere and handed it to Huakaas. “See, didn’t even need to ask me today,” he said.
“Thanks,” Arne replied, then stuffed the awkward vegetable into his inner coat pocket. “What do we have?”
Huus waved for Arne to follow him a little way down the road and through the yellow tape that crisscrossed over the entrance to an alley. Huus talked over his shoulder the entire time.
“So, a couple of gang bangers, known to us. Nothing too major. Grievous and actual bodily harm, robbery. No guns, though. Not suspects in any murders.”
Huakaas approached two bodies covered in sheets lying in the alley. Huus yanked each one back as Arne dropped to his old haunches to study them. “Beyram and Erdim Dem
ir. Brothers, twenty- and eighteen-years-old. Norwegian born, but parents came in from Turkey.”
“Okay,” Arne said, studying their pallid faces and the congealed blood around the head.
“This poor bastard got his nut sack split open,” Huus said, pointing at the younger of the two.
Arne squirmed and swallowed away the bile creeping into his throat. Murder was one thing, but a busted scrotum made his stomach turn.
“Looks like a mugging gone wrong, I’d say. Whoever they attacked wasn’t going down easy.”
“Why do you say that?”
Huus stood up. “So, we got a side alley, off a main drag in Tøyen. Not the best neighborhood. These boys are known for having light fingers. I have some scrape and struggle marks here, down the alley, to this spot.” He pointed to the brick walls and the pavement. “Blunt force trauma. Both were hit in the head with the corner of a solid object, according to our tech guys.”
“A brick?”
“Yeah, maybe. Right in the temple.” He let the words hang in the air.
Arne studied his partner’s eyes, holding his excited gaze. “Like our killer.”
Huus nodded. “Not just like, but exactly like. Same force, same spot.” He crouched down again and pointed at the bodies. “Beyram was hit in the head, caving in his skull just like our victims. Erdim, on the other hand, was given the same blow while his brother was on the ground. The back of his head is cracked. He was hit when already lying.”
“So,” Arne said, rubbing his jaw. “The perp takes out teen one with a kick to the balls, and kills him when he’s on the ground, before killing this guy ...”
“Or,” Huus continued, “the perp took out Nutsack here with a swift kick, killed guy number two who comes down the alley, then went back and killed Nutsack because—”
“No witnesses.”
“No witnesses,” Huus echoed.
Arne scratched his head. “So, you think these two idiots picked on the wrong guy.”
“Or gal,” Huus said, smirking.
Arne’s head shot up and he fixed his stare on his partner.
“We have a few folks from down the street who say there was a skinny white woman walking through here just before these two boys met their end. They also said they saw one of these two walk past her. Now, I know you don’t think it’s a wom—”
“What did she look like?” Huakaas asked.
“Huh? Oh.” Bjorn pulled out his notebook and fingered through his scrawling. “Uh, white, very skinny. Long dark coat. Wool hat. Must have had very short hair, because none could be seen peeking out from under the hat. Looked kinda homeless, scruffy.”
“Shit,” Huakaas cursed under his breath. He began to pace.
“What’s up?”
“Put out a BOLO on Georgina Thompson. British citizen. Use the description you just gave.”
“What? How do you have a name?”
“Long story,” Huakaas said, waving his partner off. “Just do it.”
“I didn’t catch that, Detective. Can you say that again for the record?” called a voice from behind the yellow tape.
Arne’s head shot up. Hansen. “There’s no record because you’re not a reporter. I’ve got enough going on without having to babysit you and your childish questions,” Arne said, pointing at the man. “This is an active crime scene. The media section is across the street.”
“What’s the problem? I’m outside the police tape,” Hansen said. “I just need you to enunciate. You said something about our killer? And dropped a woman’s name?”
“Seriously, someone get him out of here,” Huus shouted at the uniformed officers lining the other end of the perimeter, one of whom marched up and directed Hansen across the street.
“I’m on to you, Huakaas. Sooner or later, this shit is coming out.” Hansen walked away, glancing over his shoulder.
“Son of a bitch just won’t back off,” Huus said.
Arne shook his head and exhaled forcefully.
“Anyway, there’s one more thing,” Huus said. “We had a trash container randomly explode up at the Metro Mall, too.”
“Explode?”
“Yeah. Wouldn’t normally be a thing, but it’s just too damn close to here,” Huus said.
“Burning evidence?”
“Could be, but that might also mean she took a train to who knows where.”
“No. She isn’t done in town yet. Huus, get any surveillance footage from the station you can.”
Huus said something else, but Huakaas was no longer listening.
Georgina Thompson. He had her. Or the hospital did. Could it really be her? Could she be the King Kubb Killer? A skinny, sickly woman? She had cancer. Was her own impending death her reason to say fuck it and kill a bunch of men before she punched out? A last hurrah? A middle finger for some past hurt? His heart sank further into his stomach. Men reap what they sow. She’d written it on the bedsheet for him to see. He’d run her down. In her eyes, he’d wronged her. Accident or not. He rubbed at his temple, imagining Georgina smashing into his skull over and over, hate pouring from her furious, ill features.
“Huakaas,” Bjorn barked.
“Uh?”
“Name? The name, again. For the BOLO. Georgina what?”
“Oh, Thompson. Georgina Thompson.”
If that was even her real name.
Plymouth, England, 1999
Rey’s tongue felt like a carpet. Images of the night before hammered into her brain like nails in a coffin—loud nails. She peeled herself from the living room floor of her friend’s apartment, still wearing what passed for a dress when partying on Union Street. There had been a few bars. The Cornerhouse to start. White wine there. Then on to Wetherspoon’s. Jug of Green Monster there. The names of the next two bars wouldn’t emerge from the fog, but she did remember going into Jester’s. A dive club, which would have smelled like sweat and regret were it not for the copious amounts of alcohol, plumes of cigarette smoke, and the powerful stench of Joop! on every matelot, army grunt, and marine thug who packed the establishment.
Plymouth was a military town. The services all hated each other, and collectively they hated civilians. While the servicemen beat the shit out of one another and the civvies over the one girl they all wanted to bed, women—particularly student women—bought drinks cheap and danced the night away in an alcoholic stupor.
As a student at Marjon’s, Rey got the cheap drinks, and her sarcastic treat-them-mean demeanor made her a sufficient challenge for the male punters. It was a love-hate situation for Rey. Her familiarity with Plymouth and its locals meant she could wangle more free drinks and more free club entries than the average student. At the same time, the agony of having to study in her hometown was sometimes too much to bear. Of course, she’d had the grades to go to a much more prestigious university like Newcastle, but leaving home—leaving her family with Joe—was not an option. While unable to physically do much against him, Rey’s watchful eye seemed to stay his fist if not his hateful words. Apparently, having an audience who could truly judge him made it more difficult to be a complete cunt.
Then, of course, there was Damien.
At six-foot-three and built like a brick shithouse—with a temper that had led him to beat the crap out of a car when his ex-girlfriend tried to run him over—he was a force with which to be reckoned. Since they were little, her brother had seemed to goad Joe into punishing him. Flipping the bird right to Joe’s face, openly taunting the man with chants reminiscent of football stadium vitriol; “Come on then if you think you’re hard enough.” Now sixteen-years-old, and angrier than any person Rey knew, Damien inspired a level of trepidation in Joe. The problem was, Damien’s allegiance was inconsistent. Some days he aligned with their mother. Some, for reasons Rey could not fathom, with Joe.
Rey sighed heavily and propped herself up against the chesterfield sofa, her wine-soaked brain idling on thoughts of her brother. In complete contrast to his rage, Damien was also the most sensitive soul she knew
. To look at him, you wouldn’t think it. He’d hit first and ask questions second if he bothered to ask questions at all. It hadn’t always been like this. As a kid, Damien had been a damn animal whisperer. Their cat, Fizzgig, would lie on his chest for hours in front of the fire. Babies loved him. He emanated a quiet calm. Yet, over the years, his erratic behavior meant his school grades had fallen, and his relationship with both Joe and their mom was strained.
In many ways, he was like Joe—casting a long shadow in every room he entered as the occupants sat in coiled anticipation of his mood. Perhaps an inner realization of his likeness to Joe had made Damien more conflicted and schizophrenic than he would be normally. They hadn’t really spoken in a long time, and Riley was just far too young.
Rey missed them both.
“Fuck sake, me ’ed hurts,” came a cigarette-scorched voice from the couch.
Rey twisted her neck to see Jiji lying there, in a state worse than her own. Jiji had long curly brown hair, and a soft pudgy face that was always plastered with a huge grin. The kind that made people wonder if the girl still had all of her marbles.
“Why didn’t you sleep in your bed?” Rey asked.
“Nah, it wuz a sleepover. Couldn’t leave me bestie alone.” Jiji hacked a ragged cough into the crook of her arm.
They were not best friends. Jiji was one of a group of girls on the same degree course at Marjon’s who all now went out on a Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. She was a local, too, but having attended a different school, Rey had not come into contact with Jiji before registration day. She was a loud girl who Rey was convinced had a revolving door installed in her vagina. In fact, Jiji was nicknamed Seven Eleven for her always-open legs. Rey liked to fuck—who didn’t? But she, at least, was a little picky. Jiji screwed anything with a damn pulse. What else could be expected from a rich kid?
Jiji lived on Belair Road in Peverell, a posh part of Plymouth. Or at least it was posh in Rey’s eyes. Still, crashing at Jiji’s was better than crashing at home.
“Brekkie?” Jiji asked, groaning as she clambered to her feet and pulled down a skirt that barely covered her annoyingly pert ass.
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