Dead Souls

by Elsebeth Egholm

  She looked at him sternly.

  ‘Medical records are confidential.’

  She looked like someone who was wondering whether she had just broken the rules herself. But he had to ask one final question:

  ‘Was it Magnus who brought the infection with him from his home?’

  The wood in the fire crackled. Annelise McPherson picked up a poker and prodded the logs absent-mindedly.

  ‘Or it could have been Melissa. Afterwards we learned that some mothers in the town had started having so-called pox parties. Children came from out of town to be infected. It was quite a set-up.’

  He thought about Ketty Nimb and Ulla Vang and Anni Toftegaard. Whoever was looking for revenge must have got the list of all those involved in the group. Or found their names in some other way. Then again, that might not have proved to be all that difficult.

  ‘And the ringleader was Alice Brask?’

  Annelise stared into the flames once again. He could tell from her back that she didn’t feel like replying, but in the end she did.

  ‘This is something I’ve given a lot of thought, because you can spot it instantly in a group of nursery schoolchildren. They divide into Chiefs and Indians in a matter of seconds. And if there are too many Chiefs there’s trouble. Among children, that’s translated into pushing and shoving. Among adults . . .’

  He knew the situation well. His upbringing had been marked by a pecking order. The managers of the care home were not the only ones with power and authority. Children, too, were recruited to keep the others in check.

  ‘It’s a fine line between that and bullying,’ Annelise said.

  ‘Are you saying that Bella and the others were bullied?’

  She took her time to answer:

  ‘I wouldn’t call it bullying.’

  She opened her palms.

  ‘I would call it normal human behaviour. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  ‘The rule of the mighty?’

  She nodded.

  ‘But might isn’t necessarily right.’

  She added: ‘Isn’t that what history tells us?’

  69

  KIR DROVE SLOWLY past Grenå Police Station. Outside there were several cars. Mark’s was there too. She had heard about the discovery of the boy’s body in the dunes and the night raid on the mink farm. Peter Boutrup was also involved, and rumour had it that he had found the boy. Not for the first time, she imagined the two of them together, Mark and Peter. One who upheld the law and one who, on paper at least, broke it.

  She drove from Vestre Skovvej towards the town, and on to the harbour. Roughly halfway she pulled over at the florist’s, where she bought a bunch of carnations. Then she continued down to the harbour.

  She thought about Morten. Everything was arranged for that evening. He and Kasper Frandsen would meet at the Bull’s Eye at seven o’clock for a beer and a pizza. For old times’ sake. She would easily have a couple of hours. Plenty of time.

  The harbour was fairly busy for a Sunday afternoon. Sports sailors were tinkering with their dinghies and there was also activity on the fishing boats. It was cold, but the sun was shining and the Kattegat looked seductively like summer. The sea shimmered silver and mother-of-pearl and you couldn’t tell from looking that the water temperature was only around 7° on the surface. Down below, it was much colder.

  There was still considerable anger among the fishermen over SOK’s decision to call off the rescue operation; she had read that in the paper. There were thinly veiled accusations of laziness and an indifference to human life because SOK hadn’t considered it possible for the crew to survive for long in the rough sea. The gesture of sending divers down was small comfort. And when it turned out that there had been an extra man on board, the entire operation was regarded with huge scepticism.

  Kir hadn’t been to the harbour since. She had been brought up in this environment, but now she had absolutely no idea whether she was popular or unpopular with the fishermen after finding Nils’s body and ending up in the pressure chamber. She hoped the former. Especially as she needed allies for her plan.

  She parked the pickup by the harbour master’s office. A small diving ship was moored at the first quay. She could see oxygen tanks and flippers of varying sizes scattered around the deck. It didn’t look especially tidy.

  She took the bunch of flowers and set off along the harbour.

  She stopped at the empty berth where the Marie af Grenå had been moored. A couple of bouquets and a single wreath were placed against the railing. She placed her carnations next to the other flowers.

  ‘So, are you on the mend, then?’

  Svend Iversen, also known as Svend Skipper, was stacking crates on the deck of his old boat, which was tied up opposite the empty space.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Kir exaggerated.

  ‘From what we heard it was quite a drama.’

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.’

  He looked unconvinced.

  ‘You’re still a bit pale round the gills, though.’

  ‘Oh, you never get much of a tan in a diving suit.’

  He grinned and rubbed his cheek.

  ‘Fair point.’

  He nodded towards the flowers.

  ‘That was a real tragedy. Reckon the family will be allowed to bury them soon?’

  This was always an issue whenever an unexplained death occurred. The bodies had to have a post-mortem and the cause of death had to be established before they were released to the next-of-kin.

  ‘Soon, I hope,’ she replied.

  She walked round and leaned against a mooring post where Svend’s boat, the Karen Margrethe, bobbed up and down in the water.

  ‘What’s the word amongst you lot?’

  He shook his head and spat over the railings.

  ‘Well, what do you reckon? SOK aren’t exactly flavour of the month, as you probably know.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Has anyone thought about the boat?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Marie. She’s in forty-five metres of water.’

  ‘That’s a bloody long way down. We’ll never see her again.’

  ‘Perhaps not. But doesn’t anyone wonder why she sank?’

  Svend took out a small box from the depths of his pocket, found a piece of chewing tobacco and popped it under his tongue. He narrowed his eyes for a moment and looked at her.

  ‘There was a storm.’

  ‘But you’ve been to sea in a storm and you didn’t sink.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Kir straightened up.

  ‘Then again, it’s not something SOK are going to do anything about, is it? But if I were you, I’d be wondering why one of your own couldn’t handle a storm.’

  ‘Are you saying the boat . . .’

  He shifted the chewing tobacco around inside his mouth.

  ‘I’m not accusing anyone. But I’m a diver and I’m curious. If someone had a boat available and would sail me and a colleague out there, then I’d dive to see if I could find an explanation.’

  She managed to deliver the offer in a suitably nonchalant fashion. She took a step forward.

  ‘I’m sure Jens Bådsmand would want someone to take a closer look if anyone had tampered with his boat.’

  Svend Skipper’s eyes widened.

  ‘Tampered with it? Do you really think so?’

  Kir shrugged.

  ‘Don’t forget, there were three bodies down there, not two. The circumstances are already suspicious.’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘You might be right about that. Perhaps someone ought to do it. Someone like you would have the location, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the lads.’

  ‘Let me know what you decide.’

  She patted the mooring post.

  ‘He was a good man, Jens. A good father and a good fisherman.’

  Svend sighed and turned over the chewing tobacco yet again.
/>   ‘The best of the best. Hmm.’

  He looked up at the clouds.

  ‘Tomorrow’s supposed to be fine.’

  ‘I’ve got time,’ she said. ‘I’m on sick leave.’

  He angled his head to one side. His mouth was churning away.

  ‘Perhaps we should strike while the iron is hot.’

  ‘Might be a good idea, Svend. Call me tomorrow morning if you and the others think we ought to do something about it.’

  Her mobile rang as she was walking back to her car. It was Mark.

  ‘Sorry. There’s been a lot going on.’

  ‘So I gather.’

  Silence. She could never read him. Least of all over the telephone.

  ‘I was wondering . . . Are you free tonight?’

  ‘I have plans, Mark.’

  ‘With Morten?’

  She could hear his disappointment. And that he was working himself up into a lather. In a way, it was with Morten.

  ‘Morten, yes.’

  ‘OK,’ he sulked. ‘I hope you have a nice time.’

  She smiled and knew he could hear it.

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  He clicked off.

  70

  THERE WAS STILL no Facebook message from Magnus. Peter switched off the computer, took the dog and went onto the cliff to let the fresh sea air clear his head.

  After the walk he made a phone call. Then he got in his car and drove to the churchyard. It was quiet. The graves lay like small refuges in the afternoon sun, which had finally come out.

  It felt like years, but it was only a few days since he had come here after Sister Beatrice had told him about the night of dead souls. He hadn’t had any expectations. But, even so, he had secretly hoped for a meeting, he admitted to himself now. A meeting of the living and the dead.

  His wish had been grotesquely fulfilled. He hadn’t met My, but he had encountered an element of her in the shape of Bella. She had tugged at his sense of responsibility and broken down his defences. It troubled him that they’d had sex because that wasn’t what he had wanted – least of all with her.

  He heard a sound and turned around. Mark Bille was walking towards him. His footsteps seemed weary and his face haggard.

  ‘Ulla Vang and Ketty Nimb have both made complaints about you.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘They say you behaved like a self-appointed police officer.’

  ‘They’re probably right.’

  Mark gazed across the gravestones, but his eyes settled on Peter.

  ‘We’ve abandoned your activist theory. There’s no link between the killings and fur coats or animal raids.’

  He shook his head. ‘Last night’s operation was a waste of time and resources.’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Peter objected. ‘We know more now. Much more.’

  As though they had made a joint decision to walk, they set off together. The gravel crunched beneath their feet, otherwise there was total silence.

  ‘You’re right,’ Peter said. ‘This isn’t about fur. But it is about some of the women involved in the fur raids. They’ve known each other for a long time, from the days of their mothers’ groups.’

  Mark raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You’re looking for someone who has lost a child, or whose child is very sick. Someone who has reason to blame this network for the loss of their child. Their healthy child,’ Peter added.

  Mark shook his head as they walked.

  ‘First you want us to think it’s all about fur. Now all of a sudden it’s something else.’

  Peter explained patiently:

  ‘The MMR vaccine. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Not off the cuff.’

  Peter went into detail. Mark listened, but it was hard to know if he understood.

  ‘It still sounds like conjecture to me,’ Mark said afterwards. ‘Yes, I can see that there might be a connection. But it could easily be about all sorts of other things.’

  ‘The motive fits,’ Peter said. ‘You don’t go out and kill people if someone releases your mink or vandalises your shop by tipping paint over your fur coats. You get angry. But you don’t kill.’

  He looked at Mark.

  ‘Family is the strongest bond there is. The strongest motive for murder must be if someone kills your child.’

  Frustrated, Mark threw up his hands.

  ‘I can go along with that. So give us a name!’

  ‘I can’t. I haven’t got one. You’re the police. Contact the local Health Authority. Or get a warrant . . .’. Peter glanced sideways at Mark. ‘That’s not usually a problem for you.’

  They had stopped their peregrinations around the cemetery paths. Peter’s gaze drifted off.

  ‘I should never have got involved in any of this,’ he said.

  ‘You probably had your reasons.’

  Peter shot the other man a glance from the corner of his eye. For him, the police would always be a place you should never go. However. In another world, and at another time, the two of them might have been friends.

  ‘So what are you going to do?’ Mark asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But I can’t drop this now.’

  ‘You could always leave it to us.’

  Peter couldn’t suppress a smile.

  ‘With everything I’ve just told you, you’ll have plenty to do.’

  His gaze swept randomly across the gravestones. Then it stopped abruptly, and at about the same time he heard Mark catch his breath.

  It wasn’t a grave. Nor was it a resting place for an urn. It was a memorial plate which had been sunk into the earth. Next to it, stuck into a purpose-made hole, was a fresh bouquet of flowers.

  The plate was engraved with the following inscription:

  Kurt Falk 1900–1945

  RIP

  But it was the wording beneath which held Peter’s gaze:

  ‘Viva la Muerte’

  71

  ‘DO YOU REMEMBER her, Sis? Isn’t she beautiful?’

  Lise Werge heard the voice from far away. She wanted to open her eyes but couldn’t. Her body refused to obey. She remembered nothing. Didn’t want to remember anything.

  ‘Have a look. Now it’s just the three of us. You and me. And her.’

  One eye opened. The eyelid simply jumped before she could stop it. Simon. She had heard his voice. Now she could see him as well. He was sitting on the stiff-backed chair with a gleam in his eyes. He caressed the primitive, rectangular arm rests. He leaned back, pressing his neck against the iron.

  ‘Haven’t you missed her all these years?’

  These years. They had passed and she had shut him out of her mind. Seventeen years. Back then, seventeen years would have seemed like an eternity, like enormous security. But now time had caught up with her. And here he was. This was what she had always feared.

  ‘I’m cold.’

  It was her mouth that had uttered the words. If she had known that it would betray her, she would not have opened it. He got up and kicked her in the ribs.

  ‘There. That’ll warm you up. There’s nothing like feeling your own body.’

  The pain sent waves through her and bile rose into her throat. Cold fear poured into every limb and goose pimples appeared on her skin. He grabbed her hair from the back. She felt something woollen pressing against her lips.

  ‘Open up.’

  She clenched her lips.

  ‘Open your mouth or I’ll use the knife on you again.’

  Again? What had he done? She had no recollection. Had he cut her? Had he chopped off a finger or two, as he had always threatened to do? Suddenly she couldn’t feel her body.

  ‘This is your final warning, Sis.’

  She couldn’t. It was as if she had lockjaw. Then she felt the cold steel force its way in between her lips.

  ‘The knife is your friend,’ he whispered. ‘It loves all your orifices.’

  He twisted it and she tasted blood. She opened her mouth with a gasp, and the
woollen sock – or whatever it was – was pushed in, filling her mouth and almost choking her.

  He slid his hand up her thigh. The blade rasped against her nylon tights and blood flowed in narrow, ticklish streams and collected beneath her.

  ‘All your orifices,’ he whispered. ‘Including this one.’

  She froze, then shook her head frantically. The blade cut through her panties.

  ‘Does it turn you on, Sis, being fucked by a kitchen knife? Is that the best you could do? Did nobody else want you?’

  The steel cut into the flesh, or that was how it felt. She had no idea what was happening down there, but she expected the blade to penetrate her at any moment. The gag reflex took over. Spasms rolled upwards from the pit of her stomach.

  He held up the knife once more.

  ‘On the other hand,’ he said. ‘Ultimately, it’s a question of choice.’

  He stroked her hair with the steel. ‘And of course the choice has already been made.’

  She closed her eye. If she vomited, she would choke and he would do nothing to help her. Or would he? What had he just said? He had other plans for her. She knew she was going to die, but not in this way. She would die in the way he had decided. In a way he had probably been fantasising about all these years.

  The effort involved in suppressing the spasms caused her to sweat profusely. For a brief moment she was grateful for the cold floor.

  How had she ended up here? She had been in a state of terror ever since she’d heard from her mother that the doctors had let him out, but she had thought she was safe in her own home.

  In fact, Lise had already known that he was out before her mother had confirmed it. As soon as she heard the story about the girl in the moat, she had known. Once the manner of her death had been made public. Not that anything had been said or written in so many words, but Lise could put two and two together: shackled with iron rings. Broken neck.

  She didn’t need to know any more.

  But how had she ended up here?

  Simon kicked her again.

  ‘Now don’t you go falling asleep on me, Sis. We’ve got work to do. We’ve got a game to play, haven’t we? The game we never finished.’