He had to give her something, so he told her about the day when five-year-old My had turned up at the care home. He had been eight at the time.
‘She couldn’t cope,’ he said, and could see he was twisting the knife inside her with every word. He persisted:
‘So she started living in a fantasy world. She told herself that her mum would come back and fetch her.’
‘Oh, my God . . .’
Bella put down her cup and raised a hand to her throat. He didn’t look at her as he continued:
‘You’ve probably read about the home. There were punishments. My couldn’t take them. She became increasingly weird.’
‘It was recommended to us. My husband . . . He had heard so many good things about Titan,’ Bella said.
‘Then he must have had selective hearing.’
‘Perhaps he did . . .’
‘And taken a perverse pleasure in other people’s misfortunes.’
She shook her head.
‘No, no, he wasn’t like that. But, yes, he was the one who thought we couldn’t have My living with us. Her diagnosis, you know . . . She was perfectly normal, the first few years, but suddenly she changed.’
‘You’re talking about her autism?’
‘That’s what the doctors called it.’
Bella nursed her mug of coffee. ‘My husband wasn’t My’s father, you see. I didn’t meet him until after My had had the vaccination.’
‘What vaccination?’
‘The MMR jab. A kind of triple cocktail. Anders was convinced that was what had given My autism. There was so much uncertainty around those vaccinations.’
She must be using that as an excuse, decided Peter, who knew nothing about such things.
‘And Anders didn’t want an autistic child? What a charmer, I must say.’
Peter set down his mug. What was it about women who let others decide their children’s fates? His own mother had done the same. The now super-confident journalist Dicte Svendsen had once been a young, insecure mother, who had let herself be swayed by other people’s opinions. It wasn’t a truth she liked being confronted with, and it was one of the reasons they didn’t see each other. Her behaviour had imitated Bella’s: a little bit of external pressure, and hey presto, the kids were handed over to strangers without anyone checking whether they were all right.
‘I was very young,’ Bella said. ‘I was sixteen when I had My. I couldn’t handle a child, let alone an autistic child. Anders was ten years older than me.’
‘And ten years more stupid.’
He saw Bella wince. He continued:
‘My, however, wasn’t stupid. On many occasions she was smarter than all of us put together.’
Bella sat with a small smile playing around her mouth.
‘My knew she was different,’ he said. ‘All she wanted was to be like everyone else.’
They sat for a while in silence. Then Bella said:
‘I asked for it. It hurts, of course, but it’s necessary.’
‘Why now?’ he wanted to know.
She looked down at the table.
‘My husband. We got divorced last year. I’m trying to pick up the pieces of my life and look at them with fresh eyes. Starting over, I believe they call it.’
She met his gaze.
‘Anders is a good man, but a little old-fashioned. He’s an army man. He likes order, and yes . . . discipline. But he isn’t evil.’
‘They’re the worst,’ he said. ‘The ones who aren’t evil and do everything with the best of intentions.’
She squirmed, but he didn’t care if this was hard for her. It was up to him to make it hard.
‘What about Alice Brask? Tell me something about her.’
‘I know her from Elev. We lived in the same street as Alice and our children went to the same nursery and later school.’
‘What was your relationship with her?’
She thought about it for a little while.
‘I respected her . . . She knew so much about all sorts of things.’
Then, apropos of nothing, she said:
‘My son, Magnus, has gone. He’s run away. He’s eighteen.’
She gripped his arm.
‘There’s something about you, Peter. You had a way with My.’
Her eyes had taken on the fervent expression of someone who has faith.
‘You can find him, if you want.’
Her voice was intense. Her body trembled so much that he could feel the vibrations.
‘I know that must sound strange. But everything is connected: My, the divorce, the past. Even Alice Brask fits in somewhere, only I just can’t see where for the moment.’
Peter’s head was spinning. What was her agenda? He wasn’t a hero who made it his mission to save other people’s children. Why him?
‘What do the police say?’
‘Nothing.’
She grabbed his arm a second time.
‘It’s a family matter. He hasn’t been abducted or murdered. He’s eighteen. He’s just run off. Here.’
She rummaged around her bag and produced a photograph. He looked at it. It was like being hit by a stun gun and for a moment he felt numb. He knew perfectly well that she was manipulating him. But it was working. The inner worms started gnawing again when he saw the boy who looked so much like his half-sister that they could have been twins. Hopelessly vulnerable, dreamy and puckish, My was staring straight at him.
‘Please, Peter,’ Bella pleaded in her most poignant voice with eyes that trusted him as My’s had done. ‘You have so many contacts. Miriam says you helped my daughter. You must help me to find him.’
23
SABOTAGE.
Kir had turned the word over in her head as she left the moat and her colleagues behind and headed for the harbour after yet another unsuccessful dive. Peter Boutrup had been angry. She could tell from his closed expression and the jerky way he moved as if he was struggling to keep everything together. But in the middle of it all, he had also expressed his gratitude. Just with a nod and a brief thank you for spotting the saw marks on the poles. There was respect in that nod and the hint of a smile in his otherwise solemn, battered face.
She didn’t know why his face pursued her. Now, all the way down to the harbour, which she loved early in the morning and at all times of the year. In the summer, the warm mist would make the decks of the fishing boats and the tarmac on the quay steam. In hard winters, the snow would brighten everything up and ice would form on planking and in sheltered corners.
Today the light hung low across the Kattegat and deepened the colours of the ships. A storm had been forecast, but for the time being the sun was out and the clouds were staying away. The search in the moat had been suspended the previous day, following the commotion of the scaffolding accident. Today the team had picked up where they left off, two divers going down at a time. Even in such shallow waters they needed their breaks, and right now she had some free time while she waited to be called back.
She drove her red pickup down to the mole where the dinghies were straining at their moorings. There was always some obstinate angler who would defy a bad forecast and get up at the crack of dawn. She had a hundred kroner in her pocket. The thought of a couple of juicy plaice – and a dinner with Mark Bille, who might have news about the box of bones – had prompted her to drive down here.
‘Hi, Karl. Have you got something for me?’
Karl was the father of one of her old school friends. He had taken early retirement and now had time to focus on what really mattered after a lifetime of working in a machine works.
He shook his head.
‘I haven’t been out.’
He nodded his head backwards to the other dinghies with outboard motors.
‘I think Jokke has. Try him.’
Karl winked at her. ‘Besides, he always lowers his prices for lady customers.’
‘Are you calling me a lady, Karl?’
Kir looked down at herself. She was wearing h
er usual outfit: jeans, desert-coloured Gore-Tex boots and a green army jacket zipped right up to her neck. Was it any wonder men didn’t find her attractive?
‘Of course you’re a lady, Kir.’ Karl stroked his chin. ‘You can’t change that, no matter how many layers of clothing you put on.’
She carried on down the jetty. Quite a few people had come out to tinker with their boats. There was some activity over by the fishing cutters. She could see a Falck emergency vehicle parked over there and hear loud voices.
‘What’s all that about?’
Jokke followed her gaze. He was in his forties but had retired on a disability pension due to his bad back. Now he stood in his boat easing wriggling fish out of the net and into a white bucket.
‘Damned if I know.’
He spat across the gunwale.
She pulled the note out of her pocket.
‘How many can I have for a hundred?’
‘About ten of the good ’uns, I reckon.’
‘And you’d gut them for me at that price?’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’
But he agreed. He skilfully gutted the plaice and chopped off their heads, throwing the fish waste to the gulls.
While she waited, she watched the commotion on the quay where the cutters were moored. Then she put the bag of fish in her car and strolled over to see what they were doing. She knew most people at the harbour, and the boats. The Falck vehicle was parked in front of Jens Bådsmand’s cutter and now she could see a diver swimming around at the aft end.
Jens and his son Simon were standing with their hands buried in their pockets, chatting to one of the other fishermen and a Falck man in a blue overall and fluorescent vest. Simon’s friend, Nils, was watching everything with curiosity.
‘Do you need any help?’
Kir addressed Jens and his son. Jens wiped his nose on the sleeve of his jumper and shook his head.
‘Not now that I’ve paid for Falck membership. It’s part of the insurance. Otherwise I’d have called you, Kir, don’t you worry.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘There’s something stuck in the propeller. It won’t do what I want it to do.’
‘And you’re about to head out?’
He nodded and put a hand on Simon’s shoulder.
‘The boy has to learn some time, doesn’t he?’
‘The forecast is bad.’
Jens Bådsmand dismissed this with a wave of his hand.
‘One forecast is good, another crap. What are you going to believe? My bones tell me it’ll be fine.’
It was like that with fishermen. They were used to reading the weather.
‘So, Simon, no more school for you?’
The boy nodded. He had acne and was a few kilos overweight, just like his father.
‘He left school this summer,’ his father answered for him. ‘So if he wants to learn the trade, now’s the time.’
Jens Bådsmand was a skilled fisherman and his vessel, the Marie af Grenå, was one of the best maintained boats in the harbour.
‘But he might go on to further education later,’ Jens said. Simon nodded again. ‘Then he can study marine biology and tell us about all the fish we’re not allowed to catch.’ Jens playfully took a swipe at his son, who ducked with a grin.
‘And how about you, Nils?’ Kir asked his friend, who had been at school with Simon. She knew them both. ‘Are you going fishing today as well?’
Nils shook his head and looked annoyed.
‘I’ve got to go to work.’
‘Where?’
‘Supermarket. Kvickly. But I’d rather be out fishing.’
‘What’s that you’ve got there, Kasper?’ Jens called out.
The diver had surfaced from the water with a mass of net in his arms. He yanked off his mask. Kir had never seen him before, but even so there was something familiar about him. He nodded to her as if he knew who she was. Cold eyes met hers.
‘Some pound net had got caught in the propeller.’
He started to come up. The other Falck man stood ready to help. When the diver was finally out, he stood dripping water as he peeled off his equipment. He coldly looked Kir up and down.
‘So you’re the fearless diver from the Bay of Aden?’
It was said sarcastically. ‘You know my brother, I believe,’ he added.
Of course. Now she saw the resemblance.
‘Do you mean Frands? One of the mine divers?’
That was all she needed. A clone of the very tiresome Frands. The Falck diver raked a hand through his wet hair in an affirmative movement.
‘What a coincidence,’ Kir said. ‘Have you just joined Falck? I thought I knew most of their people.’
She tried to ignore his threatening demeanour. He stood with his legs astride and a little too close to her.
‘Do I look like a new guy?’
There was a hint of contempt in his voice. She had no idea why.
‘Your brother and I worked together at the convent, but I guess you’ve already heard?’
He nodded and water flew everywhere.
‘I’ve also heard the search in the moat has been called off,’ he said.
‘Has it?’
Kir felt out of the loop. He widened his legs even further and his eyes narrowed.
‘A woman who’s a mine diver,’ he said, staring at her. ‘How many officers do you have to bed to get that far?’
She stared back, caught by surprise, and her jaw dropped. For a few seconds there was only silence and the sense that the bystanders were holding their breath. Someone must have pissed in his porridge, she thought, or his brother’s. Perhaps Frands had applied to serve on the Absalon and been turned down – what did she know?
She forced herself to smile sweetly.
‘You and your brother have got a lot in common. You both seem to suffer from insecurity and . . .’
He grinned and furrowed his brow at the same time. It made him look like a snarling predator.
‘You’re a flash in the pan, Kir Røjel. Everyone knows you’re screwing your boss and that police officer. Otherwise you’d never have got to the Bay of Aden or been given that job in the moat.’
‘. . . a fear of women,’ she said, quivering on the inside. ‘My guess is an overbearing mother and potty training issues. Couldn’t you sit straight or did you have to share with your brother?’
She turned on her heel. Her remark was neither witty nor clever, but she had a strong hunch it was close to the truth.
When she came home she threw the fish in the fridge and called Mark.
‘Why don’t I know you called off the search?’
‘You’d have to ask Allan Vraa about that,’ Mark said.
That was the last thing she wanted to do right now. Kasper Frandsen’s accusations – lies though they were – sat in her like barbs.
‘It’s a question of resources,’ Mark explained. ‘And we can’t claim we’re looking for the murder weapon. Melissa wasn’t killed near the moat; she was taken to another location first.’
Talking about the case helped. The diver from the harbour faded into the background.
‘But why? If all he wanted to do was kill her, why not just strangle her there and then and chuck her in the water?’
‘He had a plan,’ Mark said. ‘He knew exactly what he wanted. And it involved time alone with the victim.’
‘Torture?’
‘Mental torture, obviously. Physical? The garrotte in itself is an instrument of torture. That girl went through hell.’
There was silence for a moment. Then Mark said:
‘What do you know about what went on during the war around here?’
It was something of a leap, but she was happy to follow his train of thought, away from the murder and her run-in with Frandsen’s brother.
‘Quite a lot as it happens,’ she admitted.
‘You do?’
He sounded surprised.
‘It’s something I’m
interested in. Also because we hunt around for old munitions in the Koral Strait from time to time.’
‘The Koral Strait? That sounds more like Australia than Djursland,’ he said.
‘It’s by the shipping channel through Kalø Bay. That’s where I found the box of bones.’
‘It’s possible that the bones are from the post-war years.’
Of course, Kir thought. It made sense.
‘Are you still there?’ he asked after a pause.
‘Yep.’
She remembered the bag in the fridge.
‘I’m going to fry some fresh plaice tonight. If you come over, I’ll tell you about some local history from those days.’
‘Don’t forget our truce.’
‘You can stick that where the sun don’t shine.’
She ended the call and knew he would come. He would keep his distance. She knew that, too. But she had begun to think this might be OK.
24
AN ARMY MAN. That was the word that had got him thinking about a possible solution to the rosary mystery. Bella had told him her ex-husband was an army man.
Peter rang Matti. He was his closest connection to anything army-related. Matti and he shared a history that went back to their childhood, but the most recent chapter was that Matti had turned up as a prison officer when Peter was in Horsens. The prison service and the army appeared to have something in common, certainly plenty of uniforms and symbols.
Peter described the rosary.
‘It looks like an ordinary rosary with a crucifix hanging from it – except this is not a crucifix.’
‘So what is hanging from it?’
He looked at the rosary, holding it up to the light while standing with the mobile in his hand.
‘Well, I guess it is a crucifix of sorts, but on top of it there’s a crown, and behind the crown there are three things that look like something from a historical film about war – you know the sort of thing I mean?’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s an old-fashioned gun – it must be a muzzle loader – one of those weapons the beefeaters in the Tower of London walk around with – and a crossbow . . .’
‘That beefeater thing? Something like a pike or a halibut?’ Matti prompted.
‘A fish?’ Peter queried.
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