Dead Souls

by Elsebeth Egholm

  At reception he paid for access to the archive. From then on it was plain sailing, and soon he was seated with coffee and cake and a screen while a helpful assistant kindly explained to him how to search for names, headlines and subjects.

  He typed in the name of Alice Brask, and up they came, her articles and contributions to the newspaper with dates all the way back to the 1990s. The topics were very similar to what he had seen on her blog, but here they were explored in greater depth.

  He quickly skimmed through them. There were plenty of topics. But if he was going to link Bella and Anni Toftegaard to Alice Brask, perhaps he shouldn’t be looking in the articles. So he changed tack and tried with letters to the editor, columns and commentaries. There were numerous letters to the editor, both for and against Alice Brask’s opinions. Some were nothing less than hate-filled. He printed a few, then kept searching. Finally, he found a letter from 2005, which was signed by a number of writers.

  ‘Ban fur farming’ was the headline and it was accompanied by a photograph of a mink in a cage, which immediately produced in his brain a series of flashbacks of all the mink that had escaped from Henrik Hansen’s farm.

  He read the letter, which logically and objectively outlined the conditions under which animals were bred in captivity. The signatories were able to document mistreatment and neglect, causing the animals to suffer, bite one another and themselves, and generally have miserable lives. There were also photographs and they were not for the fainthearted. The animals suffered, of that there was no doubt.

  ‘We must put a stop to this kind of abuse in Denmark,’ the letter concluded. There were five signatories. In addition to Alice Brask, who was the main signatory, there were the names of Bella and Anni Toftegaard, together with two other women, someone called Ulla Vang and a Ketty Nimb. Peter took out the black book. The initials matched. There was both a UV and a KN in Gumbo’s accounts, just as there was also an AT.

  He printed the letter and sat reading it and rereading it. He remembered the posters on the wall in Bella’s kitchen. Bella and Anni were, together with Alice Brask, part of an animal welfare network, it seemed. Gumbo’s photographs proved they might have done more than simply write about it. It seemed extreme to link this kind of action with killing teenagers, but one thing was certain: it was one way of making enemies. He knew of at least one man who would happily have seen women like these strung up from the nearest tree.

  50

  KIR LOUNGED IN bed. Her energy levels still hadn’t returned to normal after the perilous dive and her body was struggling. Waves of exhaustion continued to wash over her, even though she’d had an hour’s nap, a rare thing for her, and it irritated her beyond belief. She stared at the posters on her walls. Where others might have chosen more peaceful subjects, she had put up framed photographs of various types of mine and instructions about how to defuse them. She usually loved lying here, letting her eyes wander from one to the other, knowing that this was her job: preventing explosions.

  Now there had been an explosion in her life. Her misjudgement of the dive off Læsø and the discovery of Nils as an unexpected additional passenger sat deep within her, throbbing. And in the wake of that, she thought about the incident in the harbour and her encounter with Kasper Frandsen. Mr Hyde, the man with the irascible temper. The colleague who had just got divorced.

  She hadn’t heard anything from Mark about how seriously the police were taking her suspicions. But the question kept rumbling around her head: was it him? Had he somehow managed to sabotage the fishing boat when he dived down to remove the net from the propeller? Perhaps he had lured Nils into meeting him somewhere after he had finished work at Kvickly. He could have killed him and clandestinely driven him back to the Marie af Grenå and concealed the body on board, knowing full well that Jens Bådsmand was planning to go to sea and that the boat would go down with the crew and the stowaway. And he might also have killed Melissa. He could have placed her body in the moat, only to turn up later in the Falck vehicle and drive away with her corpse.

  She sat upright in bed and swung her legs out and into a pair of down-at-heel trainers. OK. In the clear light of day, it sounded a bit far-fetched – even to her. But then again, many of the murders that had been carried out over the years sounded improbable. Murder was often theatrical; a murder could be staged down to the last detail. It had happened before. But in Grenå?

  She dragged herself into the kitchen, where she made some coffee and a cheese on rye bread sandwich. It took only a few calls to get an address in Veggerslev and ten minutes later she was out of the door with a bag over her shoulder, half a smørrebrød in one hand and her car keys in the other.

  There was no harm in taking a look.

  The house was on a bend, a small bungalow with a garage. There was a wooden fence adjoining the neighbours on both sides, and a dishevelled beech hedge obscured the view of the road. A white Volvo van was parked in the drive.

  Kir pulled over fifty metres from the bend, so she had a good view of the area. She looked at her watch. It was one thirty. Now what?

  She was reminded of some TV series where police officers staked out people’s houses for hours and ended up falling asleep just when the action was about to kick off, with a mug of coffee and doughnuts from a nearby diner on their lap.

  She might have to wait for an eternity or things might move fast. But she prepared herself for a long wait. Officially she was still on sick leave.

  She switched on the radio and thought about her encounter with Peter Boutrup at the petrol station, smiling as she recalled how she had blushed when he had winked at her. Damn! She had never been able to control her blushes. It was a lifelong source of irritation, yet for some reason she felt happy about it.

  She leaned back in her seat and turned up the volume when the local news came on: Fishermen were angry at SOK because of its slow response to the accident in the Kattegat, a fire in a silo on the harbour had nearly cost one man his life and a young man had been saved by a friend when he fell asleep on the railway tracks in Grenå after a night’s drinking.

  The time was now half past two and she was starting to doze off out of sheer boredom when she heard a car door slam in the drive. Soon afterwards an engine started and the white Volvo reversed out.

  She quickly started the pickup and drove after the Volvo. She gripped the steering wheel tightly, peering ahead to see if she was following the right car. Somewhere at the back of her mind lurked the question, what was she actually hoping to achieve, but she ignored it. This was pure instinct. But it was strong. She was convinced Kasper Frandsen was guilty.

  The roads were narrow and the Volvo was moving fast. Soon they had left the villages behind them: Dalstrup, Villersø, Enslev. They were driving towards Grenå, first down Kanalvej, then Mellemstrupvej. Here, they turned off down Bavnehøjvej and into the residential area in the north-western part of the town. The Volvo stopped outside a house in Jasminvej and this time she saw Kasper Frandsen’s powerful frame as he slid the van door shut and walked up the garden path with familiar ease.

  Another long wait ensued. She kept an eye on her watch. An hour and three quarters had passed when she decided to get out and take a look around. She walked up to the Volvo and looked in through a window, but there was nothing of any interest inside. Only a jumper on the passenger seat, otherwise nothing. She tried the handle gently, but of course the car was locked.

  Then she heard voices, loud and agitated. Was that a woman screaming? It sounded as if something was being knocked over.

  When she heard the door open, the sound of angry footsteps down the garden path and a man’s voice, she pressed herself against the corner of the hedge. Some of the words seemed almost to quiver in the air:

  ‘Stupid bitch! I’ll kill you one of these bloody days!’

  The door was slammed with a loud bang. Kasper Frandsen stormed past Kir but didn’t notice her in his agitation. Shortly afterwards she heard him open the door to the Volvo, get in and speed off
down the road.

  Holding her breath, Kir remained pressed into the hedge for some minutes. Then she pulled herself together, went back to her pickup, got in and assessed the situation. Decision made, she returned to the house and rang the bell.

  ‘Who is it?’

  The voice sounded muffled on the other side of the door.

  ‘Kirstine Røjel. I just wanted to . . .’

  The door was opened and a woman looked out through the crack.

  ‘Who are you?’

  The words in the woman’s mouth sounded slurred. And no wonder. An ugly bruise was starting to spread across the left-hand side of her face. Soon she wouldn’t be able to see out of that eye.

  Kir improvised:

  ‘I was just passing and I heard a rumpus and wanted to see if I could help?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  The woman was about to close the door, but Kir pushed against it in as friendly a manner as she could muster.

  ‘Funny, you look like someone in need of help.’

  ‘I . . .’

  The woman didn’t have the strength to push the door to. She staggered. Unbidden, Kir entered and grabbed the woman’s arm.

  ‘Here, let me help you. You shouldn’t be on your own.’

  Perhaps it was the military voice that did it, or perhaps the woman had just reached rock bottom. She moaned softly. Kir locked the door behind them and manoeuvred her into a well-lit living room. Now she could also see marks on the woman’s throat where Kasper Frandsen had tried to strangle her. She thought about Melissa.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jeanette.’

  ‘Why did he hit you, Jeanette?’

  Kir stroked the woman’s hair. She was shaking. Kir took a blanket from the sofa and put it around her slender shoulders. She was not much more than a girl, she thought. Twenty-five, maximum. Bleached blond hair with black roots hung in clumps around her swollen face. Her hands flapped helplessly.

  ‘I’d kill for a cigarette.’

  ‘I can get them for you.’

  There was a tiny shake of the head and a grimace.

  ‘I’ve quit.’

  ‘How about something to drink? A cup of tea?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ she said, sounding resigned.

  Kir found what she was looking for in a neat, retro kitchen and put on the kettle. She brought in a mug of tea; Jeanette warmed her hands on it and sat for a long time inhaling the steam.

  ‘Is he your ex?’

  Jeanette nodded.

  ‘You could take out a restraining order.’

  She looked horrified.

  ‘We can’t get the police involved. He’ll lose his job.’

  ‘Surely that’s not your problem? You are divorced, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but he would go mental. As it is now, I can handle it. He doesn’t come here very often. Only when he needs to let off steam about something.’

  ‘So you’ve volunteered to be his punch bag?’

  Kir could hear her own patronising manner and regretted it. And indeed the woman sent her a look, a reminder of just how easy it was to judge others.

  ‘Rather me than the kids,’ she said.

  51

  PEACE AND QUIET had descended once more upon Henrik Hansen’s mink farm, which lay squashed in between two pig farms on the flat, windy terrain between the cliff and Gjerrild village. Row upon row of squat covered cages had made the farm’s characteristic architecture something of a landmark, so whenever anyone asked for directions in the area they were told: ‘Just drive straight towards the sea and then turn right by the mink farm . . .’

  If the animals happened to value that kind of thing, they had a great view of the Kattegat, not unlike the panorama from Peter’s cottage. Now they had also had a taste of freedom. It was hard to believe that only one week had passed since he and the other neighbours had helped Henrik Hansen to recapture the little creatures.

  ‘Peter! Is that you?’

  The mink farmer had a shotgun broken over his arm when he appeared from the feedhouse, the gravel crunching under his high rubber boots. He was a short, compact man with a fiery temper and hard eyes that brooked no opposition. A cap was pressed down over his forehead and temporarily hid his facial expression. Peter nodded at the weapon and held up his palms.

  ‘Are you expecting visitors?’

  ‘You can never be too careful. A man must be prepared to defend his property.’

  They looked at each other and Henrik Hansen’s face took on an embarrassed expression. They both knew what he was thinking: it was just such an act that had put Peter behind bars when uninvited visitors had forced their way into his property and shot his dog.

  Henrik took out the cartridges, clicked the barrel into place and rested the gun against the wall.

  ‘How’s Ida?’

  ‘Nice of you to ask.’ The mink farmer looked tormented. ‘It’s the injury to her head that worries me.’

  Henrik took off his cap and twisted it in his hands.

  ‘That poor girl will never be herself again,’ he said. ‘No matter what the doctors say.’

  Peter thought about Manfred.

  ‘How about a cup of coffee? I think Hanne has left a flask in the kitchen.’

  They went through the utility room, which was filled with filthy work clothes and footwear. Henrik’s hunting dog – a Small Munsterlander – lay in a basket and gave short wags of its tail to warn them away. Four puppies were sucking at its teats. They were five weeks old.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a proper hunting dog?’ Henrik asked.

  ‘Are you offering me a special deal?’

  Henrik kicked off his boots. Peter was about to follow suit, but Henrik’s arm stopped him. ‘No need. You haven’t been out in the mud.’

  Peter squatted down and chatted calmly to the dog, which appeared to be reassured.

  ‘I’ll give you a pup for free, as a thank you. It’s good to know your neighbours are there for you when you need them.’

  Peter got up and they walked from the utility room into the kitchen, where a flask was indeed hissing away.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  Henrik produced a couple of cups and poured coffee for them. Peter thought about the night when Manfred had called to tell him the mink had escaped, as part of a neighbourhood network. Everybody came to help and by dawn they had captured most of the animals. The mink had no idea what to do with their liberty and were running around the cages in confusion, hoping to find their way back to their food. They wouldn’t survive in the wild. He didn’t have strong feelings about fur farming. He didn’t like seeing the little creatures in captivity, but neither did he feel any bleeding-heart sentimentality for cute little furry animals, as long as they were being treated properly in their cages. He thought about the photographs he had seen in the newspaper and shuddered.

  ‘Have they found out who did it?’

  Henrik sat down, slurped his coffee and snorted.

  ‘As if they could be bothered to waste time on this. They’ve got enough on their plate as it is.’

  The two killings hung in the air between them.

  ‘But how about Ida? That was a violent assault, wasn’t it? Surely they take that kind of thing seriously?’

  They. Peter wondered briefly at their use of language. As if the word police was something you didn’t want to get too close to, as if they lived in a police state. But that was how it was in the country from his experience. The authorities were the Devil’s Spawn, and he found it hard to disagree. Most people were of the opinion that not much good would come from getting the police mixed up in anything. People settled things among themselves. He wondered if that applied to Henrik Hansen. Would he turn vigilante on anyone who hurt his livelihood?

  ‘They say they’re looking into it,’ Henrik said. ‘But what do they know?’

  He gestured with a hand. ‘They’ve only been here once, and to my knowledge, they didn’t even look at the graffiti those fathead
s left behind.’

  Peter remembered that the activists had spray-painted slogans on every available surface – ‘Ban fur farming’, ‘Free the animals’ – that kind of thing.

  ‘What do they call themselves?’

  Henrik Hansen spat out the name:

  ‘The Animal Welfare League!’

  ‘And you have no idea who’s behind it? Locals, or outsiders?’

  ‘It was planned down to the last detail. And there must have been a lot of them, or they wouldn’t have had time to open all the cages. I’m guessing they were outsiders, but they must have had some help from someone on the inside.’

  Henrik glanced sideways at Peter and turned the coffee cup in his hands. ‘Ida was on to them. She’d done some digging in the tree-hugger community. It’s only three years since the last attack.’

  ‘I didn’t know that. Are you hoping that Ida will take over the farm one day?’

  Henrik Hansen shrugged.

  ‘She’s twenty-five now. She’s studying business and corporate finance, so that’s where her interests lie. But back then she was absolutely furious. The whole family was.’

  ‘So what did she do?’

  ‘You’ve got to remember that she was young. It was probably foolish and I should have stopped her, but she tried single-handedly to infiltrate various groups.’

  Peter scrutinised Hansen, whose gaze darted uneasily from the checked PVC cloth to the thermos flask and to the window, where he could see the rows of cages and just about make out the mink twisting and turning behind the wire mesh.

  ‘Did she get anywhere?’

  Henrik Hansen nodded.

  ‘Enough for her to gain the trust of a few of them. By email, of course. I don’t think they ever actually met.’

  ‘And perhaps the others found out? Was that why Ida was given such a beating?’

  Henrik Hansen heaved a long sigh over his coffee cup.

  ‘It’s tempting to think so. If they had worked out who Ida really was.’

  ‘How did the attack occur?’