by Mark, David
Vikland followed the direction of his gaze. ‘What about the dead neighbor?’
Almquist was surprised, for a moment. Then he made the connection, to Justin Swift. ‘A neighbor and a lawyer...’
‘What are you going to do?’ She was staring at him.
What was he going to do? Almquist rubbed his chin, cigarette between his fingers, looking up at Elin Vikland with a look that spoke of reticence. He leaned back against the bonnet of his car, raising his hand, something pulling at him from the pit of his stomach. Conscience? Or was it memory? ‘I don’t know.’ Except, he did know. He looked across at Vikland and raised his arm to look at his watch. ‘It’s getting late. We need to go through all the details as soon as we get back. We need an ops room, boards. We’ll use the conference room. Get whatever else it is Lindgren is working on and get him to do the background checks. You can help me run the investigation.’ He brought the cigarette to his lips, noticing her show of pride, the end glowing as he turned and looked towards the house, then across to the lake. His attention was drawn upwards, up the face of rock, towards the summit. ‘Swift didn’t mention anything about why they needed to be a whole group of people just for one painting.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t buy any of it. And I think he’s lying about Conrad Baron.’
‘He’s covering for him.’
‘He’s covering for something.’ Almquist looked over to the front of the homestead, thinking so hard it hurt. He feared the worst but still clung to the hope it would blow over. The fifth killing; in a series that he thought was over, none of them solved.
Where was this heading?
‘Too many of them to take them to the station...’
Vikland could barely disguise her impatience.
‘We only have today.’ Almquist looked up, slowly, taking another pull. ‘Tomorrow it will be different. Tomorrow is always different.’ He stood up, throwing his butt to the ground, exhaling. ‘Swift told me a thing or two about Jayaraman. We need everything we can get. Make sense of it later.’ He looked at her, eyes awakening behind his glasses. ‘If you have any plans tonight, cancel them.’ Then Almquist turned and headed back to the house without waiting or receiving a reply.
Chapter 4
A FOLK TALE
Shaved off were the Runes that of old were written,
And mixed with holy mead,
And sent on ways so wide;
So the Gods had them, so the elves got them,
And some for the Wanes so wise,
And some for mortal men
Sigrdrifumol 18
by Henry Adams Bellows
Almquist sat down at the end of the dining table, face taut, concentrated, glasses reflecting the candles from the candelabra above. There was something about Conrad Baron that Hasse Almquist didn’t take to. Here was the player, here was the... leader, if that was the right word.
Conrad Baron had the look of an upper-class tramp, but there was something behind his eyes that spoke of a contempt for normal human affairs; and yet, there was also strength, he could see that and even had to begrudge him one small iota of respect.
‘Your function?’
‘Functionary if you like, for The British Embassy. In Copenhagen.’
Conrad Baron was sitting in the rocking chair, hands pressed together in front of him. He looked relaxed, yet seemed on guard, speaking in the manner of a man who was used to giving orders. And receiving them.
‘So... the painting had been left to Justin?’
He confirmed.
‘So why your interest in it?’
‘Because of the previous owner of the painting.’
‘Being?’
Conrad Baron burst out laughing. ‘Nice try.’
Almquist remembered the man before him enjoyed the luxury of diplomatic immunity. Was this going to turn into a diplomatic incident as well as a murder enquiry? He hoped not, realizing he had to tread carefully, refraining from reacting. ‘You knew him, Justin’s old neighbor?’
Conrad looked at Almquist with uncompromising eyes, speaking in a dry voice that betrayed nothing that could be classified as emotion. ‘He worked for my employer.’
‘The Embassy?’
‘If you like. They wanted to know why Einar Pontoppidan had it, his neighbor that is. It didn’t belong to him you see. The lawyer had a duty to perform, executing the will. All he had was a bequest, to cover expenses. We decided to let it run, see where it took us.’
Almquist looked down at the tape recorder placed on the table, the video camera in the living room being used by Elin. ‘And a request, asking for him... to contact Justin his neighbor. Being an artist?’
Conrad nodded, pausing. ‘The lawyer... he knew he was British without knowing anything about him.’
‘Who contacted the lawyer?’
‘We did. Or rather, you could say the embassy put me in touch with him.’
The embassy... Baron was telling him to beware, a thinly veiled reminder he was facing forces greater than thee and I... Almquist thought about the previous owner. He thought of Anna Kron. So who had the new owner been? ‘And that was the way it happened, with this lawyer?’
Conrad nodded as if he didn’t have a care in the world.
‘May I ask,’ Almquist picked his way carefully through a potential minefield, ‘why the British Embassy wanted to help a lawyer about a painting that didn’t belong to a man who died?’
‘You can ask.’
‘But you’re not going to tell me?’
Conrad leaned forwards, keeping eye contact. ‘Nothing too exciting, so don’t get your hopes up, Detective. It’s not up to me, you see.’ He sat back again, the chair moving with him, ‘Anyway, I have diplomatic immunity.’
As if he needed telling; Conrad Baron had served his ace early. ‘I still need ID.’
How could he forget? Almquist was about to ask another question when Conrad leaned to his side, removing his wallet from his back pocket. He opened it, taking out a small white card he handed to him. Almquist leaned forwards, taking it and brought it close to read. At the top of the card the words British Foreign Office were visible, then British Embassy Copenhagen. Conrad Baron, Communications Officer. Passport Office.
‘I have other credentials if you need to see them,’ Conrad added. ‘A number to call; take your pick.’ He smiled.
Almquist kept the card, placing it inside his jacket. ‘That won’t be necessary. For now.’
‘So, in principal I can leave when I want, say what I want.’
‘I wouldn’t do that.’
‘Of course not.’ Conrad shifted his position, spreading his hands apart. ‘And I want to help.’ His gaze faltered, but for a moment. ‘I have no idea what happened to Thomas Denisen. He fell you say, and yet you’re still here. So something’s happened you’re not telling us.’
‘You had no contact with Denisen, before coming here?’
Conrad shook his head. ‘Never met him before. He was Justin’s partner. Well, not partner maybe. Friend.’
‘But you contacted Ash, for this consultancy work?’
He nodded.
‘Because of the painting?’
‘As I told you,’ Conrad waited. When Almquist didn’t say anything he continued, ‘It’s our policy to research background. To be honest, the request was intriguing. The nature of the situation – aroused curiosity, amongst the staff.’
‘So you’re here because you were curious?’
‘I’m here because the Department was curious.’
‘Where did it come from, the painting?’
‘I have no idea. By all means, contact the embassy.’
‘And that’s why it needs so many of you?’ Almquist added, raising his voice.
Conrad settled his eyes on the detective. ‘It is my job to verify people when requested to do so. We have reason to believe the man the painting belonged to –’
‘Justin’s neighbor?’
‘– reason to believe he, how should I say, wasn’t quite
what he appeared to be.’
The old neighbor... how old is old he wondered? What was the significance of living next door to an old man? Was it significant at all? Almquist raised a hand and ran it through his beard, realizing this was going to even bigger than he had feared. Nothing fit the pattern; the pattern of the previous killings, the only common denominator being the nature of the mutilations. ‘You said the painting didn’t belong to him.’ He looked down at his block, ‘So... it belonged to the embassy?’
‘A figure of speech. No. Look, let’s make this easy. I’m not permitted to tell you my job or why I am here...’ Conrad sat back. ‘I am permitted to tell you that the man Justin lived next door to, Einar Pontoppidan is someone Her Majesty’s Government has an interest in. So when this old man dies, and leaves a painting. It becomes, shall we say...’ he inclined his head slightly, ‘interesting.’
‘To Her Majesty’s Government?’ Almquist said with a touch of irony.
‘Yes. Especially when it happens to be a British subject who is to take the painting back to its owner. It arouses curiosity.’ Conrad looked at the older man with calm determination. It was the look of the hardened professional. ‘I’m here to assuage that curiosity Mr. Almquist.’
Because his employer was interested in Justin’s neighbor. Almquist sat, regarding this gaunt, dry-humored Englishman for a moment. ‘Thank you for clearing things up for me. Us regional detectives may not be quick, what is it you say, off the mark?’
Baron pulled one side of his mouth into something that was supposed to be a smile.
‘What about Ashley Jayaraman and Daniel Hanson?’
He waved his hand. ‘They have their own interests. Ask them. I hired them as consultants.’
‘Because of?’
‘Motif. As far as Thomas is concerned, it’s very inconvenient. Look,’ Conrad stared at Almquist, speaking in a forthright manner. ‘I don’t think you understand. A lot of our work concerns background checks. In the protection of British interests. There’s a lot going on, out there in the world, at the moment.’
‘Out there?’
‘Who do you think it is that keeps all the bad men away so people like you can sleep well at night?’ Conrad lowered his head and his voice, looking up at Almquist with intensity. ‘Now do you understand?’
Almquist’s pen hovered above the paper. He looked up and smiled, calling his bluff. ‘I don’t understand why you came here, to Gotfridsgaarden, to this homestead Mr. Baron. I don’t understand why you have a key from the storekeeper. I don’t understand who you are, or why you are here.’ He paused, a silence building between them. ‘So, why don’t you just tell me about it?’
‘You don’t honestly expect me to do that. Do you?’ He waved his hand, ‘I didn’t know him. The embassy found the property, not me. As far as Thomas is concerned, since you were wondering, he was a friend of Justin’s. An art dealer. To be honest, I was bloody annoyed when I found out Justin had brought him along; I have nothing left to say.’ Conrad stopped, looking up taking a deep breath. ‘And we seemed to have skipped dinner...’
Dinner. A man had been brutally mutilated and all he could think about was dinner? Almquist looked at his watch. ‘I understand. Except, Thomas Denisen is no longer a member of your dinner club.’ He clenched his jaw, staring at this untouchable. ‘He is dead, and your friends have picked up a hitchhiker at the about the same time as his death. You can eat when we are finished.’
‘I don’t want her here. I have no idea why they brought her. Take her with you if you want.’ He leaned forwards, the chair leaning forwards with him. ‘Be my bloody guest.’
Almquist frowned. ‘It is a little too late for that. She stays here. For tonight.’
Conrad sat upright, arms holding the armrests at the sides of the rocking chair. ‘What?’
Almquist reached out and pressed stop, moving the recorder towards him. ‘You are obviously a very important person,’ he said sarcastically, standing to face him. ‘But you are going nowhere, at least for tonight. Mr. Baron.’
Diplomatic immunity or no diplomatic immunity.
That was when he thought about the phone... he would have called the embassy. If he had more men, maybe he could do something about it. But with only two of them, they had no choice. They had to stay.
By 19:30 Almquist and Vikland had completed the interviews and taken possession of Ulrika’s cameras. Ulrika sat around the table, Conrad still sat in the rocking chair staring at the wood burner, doors open, sending shifting patterns of light across the floorboards.
Justin entered, followed by Ash and Daniel, each taking a seat at the table, followed by Vikland who remained standing in the doorway, blue bomber jacket on, ready to leave.
Almquist scanned the people around him, names and faces becoming familiar. ‘We will soon be leaving you for the evening.’ He glanced at his watch again. ‘If you need to, you can call me.’ He shot a look in Elin’s direction, pushing himself to a standing position. Stepping forth he reached out and placed his card on the dining table, then returned to help himself to coffee from the pan.
‘Are we under arrest then?’ Ulrika asked in a surly voice.
‘No,’ he replied, pouring into an empty mug. She was annoyed her cameras had been taken from her. And who could blame her? Little darling...
‘So why do I have to stay here then?’
‘Because this is a murder inquiry,’ Vikland said curtly.
Almquist leaned back and waited for their reactions. He looked at Ulrika ignoring the murmurs, the steaming mug of coffee in his hand and took a sip. Placing it on the kitchen worktop, he reached a hand into his coat, removing his packet of cigarettes, lighting one. He smoked without saying anything, thumbnail on tooth, cigarette clenched between fingers, looking. Thinking... looking across at the canvas and the Odin figure, wondering why on earth anyone would want to paint such a thing. And why Conrad Baron of the British Embassy had an interest in it. He was hiding something.
‘A murder inquiry? You said Thomas fell?’
Murder inquiry. Almquist looked away and removed his hand, looking for his coffee cup, bringing it to his lips, taking another sip as he nodded at Justin. ‘He did.’
‘So you think one of us pushed him, is that it?’ Daniel asked.
‘Perhaps,’ he shrugged, covering his slip.
‘So what really happened to Thomas?’ Ash asked.
He stood up, annoyed with himself. ‘The question I want answering is,’ he looked at the painting on the chest of drawers and spun to face Justin, ‘Who sent this painting to your neighbor?’
He was met with silence.
‘And why did Thomas Denisen have it with him?’
Ash sat up, looking around, settling on Conrad who was rocking in the chair.
‘Did you know he had a mobile telephone?’
‘He bragged about it; he loved gadgets,’ Justin said.
‘Did you see him call anyone with it?’
Justin shook his head.
Face passive, his head hanging slightly as if pulled downwards by an invisible weight, looking towards the painting; the Hangman hanging, arms stretched above and behind him, face shrouded in ambiguity looking down, beard hanging almost to the ground, as if it was a part of the tree that was alight, caught in a conflagration that seemed to be coming from the figure. Or was it the other way around?
He walked to the table, pulling out a chair sitting down, looking down the length of pine boards into expectant faces and played his first card. ‘Thomas died as a result of falling down a long and steep stair in the park.’
‘You just said he was murdered,’ Ash accused.
Almquist shrugged and raised his smoking cigarette and took a pull. ‘Thomas Denisen might have fallen.’ He looked Ash in the eye. ‘Or, he might not.’ He thought about that as he took another pull and look down at dusty floorboards, images sensed in the pattern of grain and dirt, beckoning him. He saw Denisen’s body, a flash of memory, deja vú, broken eyes and lost
souls.
Four women and now a Dane; old superstitions... Kron.
He looked over at Elin; she seemed easy, waiting for his cue. Dear Elin. He envied her; he envied her uncluttered world, her easy life. He sensed a moment approaching, one where he ought to resist, like leaning forwards to dive into the lake beyond. ‘Which,’ he was aware of a sense of expectancy, realizing they were all waiting for him.
But waiting, for what?
He snapped out of it. ‘Which brings me to a story.’ He took the plunge, turning to his side to extinguish his cigarette. ‘One I think you might all be interested in.’ He looked at Daniel. ‘One I learned as a boy.’ He took his time, speaking in a quiet, gentle voice. ‘It is the tale, of one called Rómund. He was the father of Æsa.’ He looked at Ash. ‘You have heard of Æsa.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘Æsa is very well known. But nothing was known of her father, Rómund, who was called Rómund the bad.’ He paused for effect, ignoring the look coming from Vikland. ‘Rómund served a King, the King of Gothia. Before we became Sweden, our country was divided into two Kingdoms.’ He tapped the table with his finger. ‘Battles were fought, people were forced from their homes. Now the King of Gothia, he lost many battles because he was being haunted by this evil spirit. People used to call him the Witch King.’ He stood up and walked across the room, looking down at his ordered paces in long, slow strides smoking his cigarette.
‘The old legends say the Witch King lived in a big mound, underground. He came out at night, killing hundreds of men.’ He stopped briefly, and turned. ‘Many soldiers fought for the King. So Rómund, he comes to the King, and tells him that he will kill this evil spirit.’ Almquist paused and looked up at his audience, noticing Justin lighting up, offering a cigarette to Ulrika. ‘He had this magic sword, one that could kill any man or beast, so he could kill this... Witch King.’ Almquist paused to draw breath, removing a hand to rub his brow, the thickening tobacco smoke making the light from the candles glow in a halo. ‘Rómund was honored, like a great Viking he was. But,’ he looked around as he raised a finger, ‘before he died the Witch King cursed him. He told him he would lose all his sons and daughters.’ He shrugged, ‘Then Rómund’s sons were killed in battle, leaving only his daughter.’