Kir did hamstring stretches against a tree. Her old flame, a former Falck diver called Morten, did the same. He was the man she had almost called the first day she had dived into the moat. They knew each other, not from diving but from the gym. Once, on a night out, there had been the potential for an affair, but nothing had ever really come of it, quite possibly because Morten had been a married man in those days. Years later, a friend had told her that he had got divorced. Morten himself had recently told her that his disabled daughter had died, so he had put his house up for sale and moved into Grenå for a fresh start.
‘Your life has just been saved in a pressure chamber and now you’re whingeing about not being able to run fast. I think you need to get a better perspective on life.’
If only he knew how much more perspective she had acquired recently. She had told him about the body in the moat and the fishing cutter with the three dead bodies. She had also told him a little about the box of bones. But she hadn’t told him about her truce with Mark, the indirect reason that they were out for a run together now. Something needed to happen in her life. Morten was one possibility. So she had called and suggested an early-morning run through Polderev Plantation, followed by brunch at her house. It had taken him all of two seconds to say yes.
They started running alongside each other. Morten was a fairly big guy but he wasn’t particularly fast, and she had no trouble keeping up with him, even though her body still felt woozy.
‘So what was it you wanted to know?’
He was already panting. He had quit his diving job long ago and was now working as a doorman at a club called Summertime by Grenå harbour. The rest of the time he worked for Falck as a driver, as well as doing other casual jobs.
‘One of your colleagues, or former colleagues – Kasper Frandsen. Does that name ring a bell?’
‘Of course, Kasper. Funny guy.’
Kir snorted with derision.
‘Funny isn’t quite the word I would have used to describe him.’
Morten grinned in her direction. The sweat was already pouring from his face.
‘So you’ve met him?’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
She told him briefly about her scene with Frandsen at the harbour.
‘That sounds like him. They call him Mr Hyde.’
‘Oh, why’s that?’
‘He has one hell of a temper. I’ve been on the receiving end of it myself a couple of times.’
‘What else do you know about him?’
‘He’s in the middle of a divorce from what I hear. He used to live with his wife and children somewhere in Grenå. I don’t know where he lives now.’
Mr Hyde. The diver’s face appeared in Kir’s mind as she ran.
So how many officers do you have to bed . . .
It struck her there had been a cruel quality to his expression when he had stood there, legs astride in front of her, small, sharp eyes squinting at her through narrow cracks. Cold and calculating, as if he was sizing her up to see how he could get the better of her.
Her legs felt tired. The fatigue spread to the rest of her body, but she doggedly kept running. She had to focus and be objective, not panic and then draw hasty conclusions. Kasper Frandsen was an unpleasant so-and-so, and his colleagues called him Mr Hyde, the other side of Dr Jekyll. His job as a Falck diver meant he moved around like a hunter. If it was human game the man was after, he certainly had the opportunity – to throw his prey into a moat which he would later help to search, for example. It was perfect. In fact, he was a textbook example of a serial killer. And that was the problem. The fit was too neat and she had already taken a dislike to him.
‘So what’s this about Kasper?’ Morten asked, jumping over a puddle with a lumpen elegance. ‘Why are you so interested in him?’
‘Oh, no reason.’
They ran the route they had agreed. With half a kilometre to go to her house, she accelerated:
‘Loser makes coffee!’
They had just poured Morten’s coffee into the cups when she heard a crunch of tyres rolling across her drive and raised her head. She looked out and saw a police car, and suddenly wished Morten wasn’t there. But there was no time to hide him in a closet or shove him out the back, and she was forced to open the door to Mark.
‘Have you got a visitor?’
It sounded more like an accusation than a question.
‘Is there a law against that?’
His face darkened.
‘It’s eight o’clock in the morning.’
‘And?’
‘So was this a visitor who stayed the night?’
She couldn’t help laughing. She spoke quietly so that Morten wouldn’t hear her:
‘Christ, what a way to put it! Why don’t you just ask me outright if I had sex with him?’
‘Did you?’
‘So what if I did? How is that any of your business?’
She jabbed him in the chest.
‘The truce was your idea, remember?’
He swallowed. He had turned even darker than usual and his eyes were hard and black.
‘Well, you could have been a little more discreet.’
‘This is my house, in case you’d forgotten.’
She doubled up with laughter. This added to his irritation, she saw. She opened the door wide.
‘Why don’t you come inside and meet the competition,’ she spluttered. ‘His name’s Morten.’
Mark hesitated, clearly at a loss. She felt a tinge of sadness. He touched something in her, but the strong attraction had gone. He seemed somehow adrift, and she was no longer in love with him. She wasn’t in love with Morten, either, but perhaps he was a way to move on.
‘Come inside, you numptie,’ she said to Mark. ‘He’s just a colleague. We’ve been for a run.’
She pushed him into the living room, where Morten leapt to his feet and held out his hand while quickly gulping down his food. Kir rustled up another cup of coffee.
‘Any news?’
Mark drank his coffee as fast as he could. He was obviously not at ease in Morten’s company. Kir wondered if it might have something to do with the fact that Morten was fairly muscular. Whereas Mark was the skinny, feline type, Morten was a bear.
Mark finally stood up and produced a piece of paper from his pocket.
‘I’ve brought you the list we were talking about.’
‘OK, thank you. Can I read it?’
Mark nodded but with a warning glance at Morten, who jumped up.
‘I’d better be off.’
Kir protested, though without much conviction.
‘Let’s do this again some time.’
‘Absolutely.’
Morten looked as if he wanted to give her a hug, but was afraid to. Big hands hung helplessly from the end of his arms, spread outwards. Kir reached up and planted an innocent kiss on his cheek.
‘See you.’
‘Let’s do this again some time,’ Mark mimicked when Morten had gone. ‘What kind of a ruminant was he, then?’
‘You’re jealous.’
‘Am I hell. But he didn’t seem to have two brain cells to choose from.’
He followed her back into the living room. ‘You deserve better.’
She turned around and he almost bumped into her.
‘You, perhaps?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
He flopped down on her sofa. She poured more coffee and unfolded the list.
‘I just wanted to see if any of these names rang a bell.’
43
THE CHILDREN WERE wearing snowsuits in every colour imaginable. They squealed with delight as they slithered down the short slide and laughed their heads off when a heavier child on the seesaw sent them high into the air.
They swarmed around the playground like noisy and colourful mini-astronauts, and for a moment, Peter paused to breathe in their joy and their pluck.
Watching them was like the hours with Jutta and the children: a w
elcome injection of normality. He had spent the morning driving around with his home-made missing person posters and stuck them up on various noticeboards in strategically chosen supermarkets. That in itself was an absurd action on top of a week of incidents that had whirled him around in a centrifuge of murder, accidents and misery.
After his efforts to locate Magnus, he had made for Elev, passing the nursery on his way. On impulse, he had stopped the car and got out.
The sight of the children was balm to his soul. They didn’t know how lucky they were, he thought. It was a case of picking the right number in the lottery, and these children had clearly come out of it very well.
‘Can I help you?’
One of the nursery teachers approached him. He had been looking at her as well, possibly not quite as discreetly as he ought to have. She was pretty in a very Danish way: she had blond plaits and freckles and dark brows, which as of this moment were indicating disapproval. It dawned on him what she must have been thinking. Being a man in the company of children was not as easy as it had been only decades ago.
‘I . . .’
He hadn’t prepared anything, and suddenly it was as if every possible explanation could be misinterpreted.
‘Are you looking for someone?’
He nodded.
‘I was wondering whether there was anyone who had worked here for many years . . .’
‘Why?’
She was on her guard. She had already taken against him, but he knew that behind the stern expression there were smiles and dimples. He had seen it just now when she was playing with the children.
‘I’m looking for a young man called Magnus,’ he said. ‘He’s eighteen years old, but he used to go to this nursery. He’s gone missing . . .’
And I believe it has something to do with his childhood. That was what he was thinking, but he couldn’t make himself say it out loud. She would either laugh herself silly or tell him to go to hell.
As it was, she stood there for a moment, her expression changing from distrust to normal reflection.
‘You want to talk about a boy who used to come here, what . . . twelve – thirteen years ago?’
He essayed an apologetic smile.
‘I know it might sound a bit odd . . .’
‘Are you family? His father? If he’s gone missing, surely you should report it to the police?’
He liked the fact that she was so logical. In fact, he liked her, full stop. She was protecting her children, that much was clear. And justifiably, in case he was a paedophile planning to abduct a child.
‘His mother has asked me to lend a hand . . . The police aren’t involved. He’s eighteen and we think he’s just hiding somewhere.’
She scrutinised him while she weighed up the matter. Then she appeared to decide he was worth a shot.
‘You’d better come with me.’
She accompanied him inside the nursery, where small shoes and bags and coats had their allocated places on shelves and pegs in a range of colours, through a room cluttered with toys where moulded plastic chairs were arranged in a circle as if there had just been an important round-the-table discussion.
She knocked on an office door, which was ajar. There was a nameplate: Annelise McPherson. Obviously married to a Scot, he thought.
‘Annelise?’
‘Yes, come in.’
Behind a desk and a computer sat a curvaceous middle-aged woman with her hair up in an artistic heap. She smiled.
‘Yes, Hanne?’
‘This is . . .’
‘Peter Boutrup.’
‘Peter Boutrup. He . . . He’s looking for a boy who used to attend this nursery . . .’
‘Oh yes?’
The woman called Annelise furrowed her brows and looked almost as sceptical as her younger colleague. Peter decided to turn on the charm.
‘It was just a spur of the moment thing.’
He flung out an arm in what he hoped was an apologetic gesture. ‘I was passing and saw the children playing outside and I already knew Magnus used to attend this nursery . . . Bella told me.’
‘Bella? Bella Albertsen? I remember her well.’
He nodded.
‘Magnus was a lovely little boy. Did you say you were looking for him?’
‘He’s been gone three weeks. I know he’s eighteen, so he’s entitled to do whatever he likes. But his mother . . . Well, you know, mothers and sons . . . She’s really worried.’
‘I can imagine.’
The nursery teacher signalled that she was leaving. Annelise nodded for him to sit down and he pulled up a chair. This wasn’t the boring office of a business manager with expensive art on the walls. Children’s drawings were plastered everywhere. Everything seemed colourful and cheerful and underpinned with a hint of sensible educational values. The children were holding hands and playing together. There was a wide spectrum of skin colours and everyone was happy.
The thought crossed Peter’s mind that this was a perfect representation of an imperfect world. This taught children from an early age how to depict a fantasy or a half-truth. He was no different. He had once done the same.
‘Magnus,’ Annelise said. ‘He was a bit of a paradox. He never wanted to come indoors when he was told to. But at the same time, he was delicate – physically, I mean.’
‘But not mentally?’
‘Oh, no. He had a will of iron. He was a little survivor.’
Peter hoped that was still the case.
‘I was wondering if anything from the past might have influenced his actions today . . . He seems to be running away from something.’
He hoped she would see it as an open-ended question. She sighed.
‘Bella was a good mother, but she was also easily influenced and she didn’t always have the best advisers.’
She touched the pile of greying hair lightly as if to make sure the hair slide was still in place.
‘But it’s difficult to be a parent and make the right decisions, isn’t it?’
‘Are you thinking of anything in particular?’
She brushed a stray lock behind her ear and allowed herself a little time before replying.
‘It’s like all other aspects of life, I suppose: the leaders set the pace. And then there are those who follow without ever asking too many questions . . .’
‘The others?’
Annelise McPherson rocked her head from side to side, as if weighing up the pros and cons. ‘It could have affected a small boy, who knows . . .’
Peter was frustrated but didn’t press her for anything more concrete. Perhaps she sensed his frustration because she stopped herself almost halfway through the sentence as if it hadn’t occurred to her until now that she was talking to a total stranger.
She shook her head.
‘Perhaps you should discuss this with Bella. After all, you know her.’
44
THE HOUSE STOOD in the middle of the forest, half-swallowed up by encroaching nature. Its name was ‘The Woodland Snail’. It had been an imposing building once, he could see that. But decay and – Mark guessed – a shortage of money had allowed moss to spread across the roof, branches of trees to press against windows and gables and for weeds to flourish. The overall impression was sinister and dark, like an alluring gingerbread house in a fairy tale.
After he had rung the doorbell it took a while before someone called from inside.
‘Who is it?’
It was a voice that said Go away and don’t come back. Mark adopted his friendliest tone:
‘Mark Bille Hansen, Grenå Police.’
The door was opened a crack. A security chain separated him from an old woman who reminded him of a tortoise with her small, half-hidden eyes, short neck and numerous wrinkles in an almost square face. Her body could only be guessed at. It bulged in every conceivable, and inconceivable, place and she had tried to hide it under a dark dress and a woollen jumper.
‘Police?’
He nodded.
‘Do
you have any ID?’
He was surprised, but produced his warrant card and showed it to her.
‘Please may I come in?’
She didn’t move from the spot. Her eyes, filled with mistrust, measured him from head to foot.
‘What’s this about?’
Mark had to count to ten in order not to lose his patience. What was wrong with people these days? They watched too many thrillers on TV and behaved as if they had fifteen bodies buried in the back garden.
‘It’s about your father, ma’am.’
He was on first-name terms with the abbess, but this woman was like a fairy-tale witch. Better address her as ma’am, so as not to provoke her, he decided.
‘What about him?’
‘Perhaps it would be best if I could come inside?’
The old woman peered up at him from under heavy eyelids.
‘If you tell me what this is about I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘Kurt Falk. He was reported missing just after the war. We’ve found skeletal remains from that time and we’re investigating to see if they match any living relatives.’
She didn’t seem keen, but after further scrutiny of both him and his warrant card, she removed the chain and opened the door. He followed her into an old kitchen where a newspaper lay open on the kitchen table. A half-done crossword puzzle. There was also a pencil.
‘Sit down.’
He did as he was told. She plonked herself down heavily on the chair opposite him and sank into her vast body. It was hard to know whether she was looking at him or not, but he had a sneaking feeling that every centimetre of him was being subjected to close inspection.
‘I know it’s many years ago now, but perhaps you can tell me a little bit about the circumstances of your father’s disappearance.’
Had she fallen asleep? Her eyes were closed and her neck had retracted deeper into her dress so that her body and face had become one, or so it seemed. Then she said:
‘Where did you find the bones?’
There was something about the question or the way she had asked it which made Mark hesitate as to how much she ought to know.
‘It’s a long story.’
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