Grendel's Curse

by Alex Archer

“Is this the last job you meant? Disposing of a body?”

  “No. It’s fine. You’re right. We’re done. Time to walk away. We have nothing left we need to say to each other.”

  Tostig turned his back on the car. “Then I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Leave? You won’t be leaving, Tostig.”

  He heard the change of tone in his ex-employer’s voice. What he didn’t hear was the sound of Nægling slicing through the air.

  He only felt the pain for a heartbeat.

  The last thing to go through his mind was, So this is what it feels like.

  38

  Annja called Micke Rehnfeldt.

  The filmmaker was glad to hear her voice. The first words out of his mouth were, “Where and when?”

  Suddenly she remembered she’d agreed to a date.

  “Soon, I promise.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because you’re a cynical young man?”

  “Made that way by life’s disappointments,” he said, then chuckled. “So if it’s not me you’re looking for, I assume it’s something I can do for you?”

  “An address.”

  “How about mine? Will that do?”

  “I was thinking someone else.”

  “Who are you after?”

  “Karl Thorssen.”

  Micke blew out a long slow whistle. “Big Bad Karl himself, eh?”

  “The one and only.”

  “Well, it’s not like its public domain stuff, but he’s a politician, his home is on record. All you need to do is call the tax office—they’ll even tell you what he earned last year and how much tax he avoided paying. Albeit that’s his official residence—he doesn’t actually live there. That’s just for the paperwork—a little apartment in Gothenburg, not far from your hotel, actually.”

  “So where does he live?”

  “If I tell you I’ll have to kill you.”

  “And then how’d you get a date?”

  “Hmm, good point. I see a flaw in my plan.”

  “So?”

  “Okay, you didn’t hear this from me, and the cost is dinner, tomorrow night—you, me, one slinky dress, one proper suit and tie, six courses, wine, music and maybe even a little dancing afterward. That’s my price.”

  “Deal.”

  “Excellent, then I’ll see you at a restaurant called Basement at seven tomorrow. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to try and find the place all by yourself. As for Karl Thorssen, the house he actually lives in is on an island off the coast, joined by a land bridge—Marstrand, bit of a rich man’s paradise. It’s about forty minutes north and west of here, follow the E6 and take the exit for the 168—that’ll take you over the bridge. It’s fairly remote out there.”

  “Terrific. I owe you one.”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  “Looking forward to it.” Annja hung up.

  “So you know where he lives.” Gavin grimaced. “What’s your plan, then? Just go up to his front door and ring the bell? Ask if he has the bits of broken sword, oh, and you wouldn’t happen to have seen one grieving mother?” Garin did not bother to hide the sarcasm from his voice.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, although he wasn’t far off; she’d only gotten to “drive to Thorssen’s.”

  She had no idea where Una Mortensen was, and beyond sticking to the politician’s side, she could think of no other means to find her, either. But she wasn’t about to let her do something stupid.

  “How are you with a camera?”

  “If it involves using my hands with anything, I’m an expert, Annja. All you have to do is ask.”

  “Great, you can carry Johan’s camera around on your shoulder and pretend you know how to use it.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I’m going to turn up on Thorssen’s doorstep, flatter him and get that interview.”

  “And you think he’ll just say, ‘Sure, come on in, excuse the dead bodies all around the place, I’ve been a bit busy’? It’ll be the middle of the night before we even roll up.”

  “You don’t know the guy, he’s an egomaniac. The entire dig was all about him. He knows I know about Nægling, or at least he suspects. He won’t be able to resist one last gloat on camera—”

  “Before he tries to kill you. Third time lucky, babe.”

  “We’ll just have to try and stop that from happening, won’t we, Garin?” she said sweetly.

  “We?” he said, grinning that “why do I always let you drag me into this stuff” smile he’d perfected since meeting Annja.

  She knew she was on to something, even if her mouth was moving faster than her brain as to how it would all play out. “He wants the spotlight. The election is three days away. I give him the chance to reveal Nægling for the world, on camera, he won’t be able to resist.”

  “You’re certifiable, Annja Creed, you know that, right?”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  “Who said anything about love?”

  “Tolerate, then.”

  “Better. Right, you’d better give me a quick lesson how this camera works. I don’t want to look like a moron. And you never know, you might want to actually record something. Famous last words and all that.”

  She took a few minutes to run through what he needed to know, and then they were heading out to the car. Even those spent ten minutes were a concern; what if they were the difference between getting to Thorssen before Una and not?

  They sprinted down the back staircase to the underground complex, into Garin’s waiting sports car, and accelerated away. Annja urged him to floor it.

  “Just let me drive,” Garin said, staring grimly ahead as the car drifted across three lanes of traffic as he hammered it around a too-tight corner. The maneuver was greeted by a chorus of horns being pounded by irate drivers. Had it been a couple of hours earlier they’d have been roadkill.

  She gave directions as they drove, taking him out onto the E6, the major arterial freeway that runs all the way up to Trelleborg, before hitting Lake Vänern. There, Garin really opened up the engine, hitting speeds more suitable to the autobahn, and then they were off for the 168 as Micke had told her.

  It started raining as he hit the road bridge, but a minor shower wasn’t going to slow him down. Garin roared into the sleepy island town, following Annja’s instructions until they pulled up in front of Thorssen’s home.

  The huge wooden Viking longhouse-style gates were closed. She could see security cameras set above them.

  “Want me to ram them?” Garin asked. She couldn’t tell if he was serious.

  “That would ruin the whole ego-stroke approach to the interview, don’t you think? We play it by the book, Garin. Walk up, hit the intercom, ask for the interview and hope he opens the gates.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Plan B.”

  “And that is?”

  “We improvise.”

  Would Una Mortensen really have come here?

  Would she even have been able to find where the man lived or would she have gone to the apartment in Gothenburg?

  The last message she’d left on Annja’s voice mail had sounded desperate. Desperate people did desperate things. If not his house...maybe she intended to confront him in public, while campaigning, as he cast his vote even? Surely it wouldn’t be too difficult to get a copy of his itinerary for the next couple of days leading up to the election and find out when he was vulnerable to an attack.

  There was a screen and a touch pad beside the gate. They got out of the car and went over to it.

  Annja hunched forward, trying to shield herself from the worst of the rain as it quickened. In the distance she heard a deep rumble. Thunder. She hadn’t seen the flash of lightning yet. Great, she thought as she hit the green button she assumed would call up to the main house. Garin stood beside her.

  A face appeared on the screen. It wasn’t Thorssen’s but rather an elderly lady. His mother.

  �
�Mrs. Thorssen?”

  “That’s right,” the woman on the screen said. “Don’t I know you? I recognize you...have I seen you somewhere before, dear?”

  “My name is Annja Creed.”

  “From the television? How wonderful. Kalle will be so sorry he’s missed you. But he’ll be home soon, I’m sure, if you want to come up to the main house and wait.”

  Before Annja could answer, the old woman was buzzing them in and the heavy wooden gates were swinging silently open.

  They got into Garin’s car and he drove up the long road to the main house, fat rain drumming loudly on the roof of the car.

  Viveka Thorssen was waiting for them in the doorway of an incredibly modern house that was totally out of keeping with its surroundings.

  She ushered them in out of the rain, leading them deep into the home. They went up a wide staircase to the second floor and into an immaculate living space with two large white leather sofas and a huge plate-glass window. The view looked out over a spotlighted Olympic-size rooftop pool and the darkness of the grounds beyond that.

  Rain streaked the glass.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing that they should take a seat. “Could I get you some tea? Coffee?” Her English was flawless, cultured. The woman herself looked as if she was made up of the finest bone china.

  “There’s really no need, Mrs. Thorssen....”

  “Certainly there is, my dear. There’s always a need. Civilization was based upon the need for a nice cup of tea.” She hurried out of the room, no doubt in the direction of the kitchen.

  They could hear her puttering not far away, the telltale clink of crockery and the bubbling of a boiling kettle, and then they heard something else: an engine approaching the house. It was followed quickly by the sound of a door being slammed a little too firmly for comfort.

  Keys rattled in the lock of the front door.

  Then Annja heard Thorssen call, “I’m back.”

  There was something peculiar about the look on his face when he entered the room. It wasn’t purely down to the surprise of seeing her sitting in his living room, either, though his expression soon slipped into that careful public mask she had seen before.

  There was no sign of the sling that had been supporting his arm and the cuts and bruises were gone from his face; he’d clearly made a rapid recovery from his superficial injuries. There was, however, blood on his shirt.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  39

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you,” said Annja. “Hold on there, no, I’m not. What made you think I was dead?”

  The politician was obviously struggling to come up with a convincing lie. Annja wondered how long it would be before he abandoned all pretense. Not long.

  “I thought I had seen it on the television.”

  “Not me. Though obviously there’ve been a lot of deaths on the news over the past few days so I can understand the confusion.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  She couldn’t exactly say she’d come to stop Una Mortensen from killing him, or trying to. Or could she? It was an angle. Instead of posing a threat she’d come to him as an ally. It might just work.

  Annja saw that Thorssen was trying to shield a bundle he’d been carrying as he walked into the room, doing his best to keep it behind his back. She was familiar enough with the shape of a sword to recognize it no matter how much material he had wrapped around it.

  Had he been able to get a replica of the sword made so quickly, with only the heavily encrusted pieces of metal to go on?

  Impressive. But then money can work miracles.

  “This is Annja Creed, Kalle. She’s from the television,” his mother said, reappearing in the doorway with a tray of exquisite teacups.

  “Ah, television, then I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. You should have made an appointment through my press officer. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’ve got to be up in Stockholm in a few hours. Big debate tomorrow, going out live on national television.”

  That was interesting because she knew he wasn’t invited to be part of it—she’d already heard him complain about that—but she didn’t say anything to contradict him. They were being dismissed, but Annja was taking no notice of him.

  “That’s unfortunate. We’re leaving in the morning, first thing, and I really wanted to get you on camera talking about Skalunda, the hero buried there and of course the tragic death of your lead archaeologist.”

  “I’m not sure there’s anything to say,” Thorssen growled.

  There was something different about the man. She didn’t feel comfortable in his presence and it was obvious Garin was on edge beside her.

  “It’s not a problem. I had hoped you’d offer a unique insight into the heritage of your country—this dig is yours, after all. There’s no one better to talk about it, but I’ll just do a piece to camera, explain that unfortunately your schedule was too full with the forthcoming elections, that kind of thing.”

  “Perhaps you should do that,” Thorssen said.

  “Nonsense, dear. You know how much the dig means to you and to your supporters. Don’t cut your nose off to spite your face. Go freshen up. Miss Creed will wait, won’t you?” Viveka Thorssen said, oblivious to any subtext playing through the conversation.

  “As always, you are right, Mother. Please, Miss Creed, give me a few minutes to get cleaned up and I’ll be with you.”

  Annja gave him as pleasant a smile as she could muster. “Take your time. Before you go, might I ask, have you seen Una Mortensen, the archaeologist’s mother, today?”

  Thorssen’s brow furrowed—the consternation was genuine. “Why would I have? But, to answer your question, no, though my secretary tells me she’s been making a nuisance of herself at the office.”

  The red light on the side of the camera was lit. Garin was recording the exchange.

  “A nuisance of herself? That’s quite a polite way of saying she was accusing you of being complicit in her son’s death.”

  “Complicit? Are you accusing me of murdering someone? You sit there, in my own home no less, in front of my mother, and throw around wild accusations like that?” He shook his head. “Lars Mortensen was a valued colleague. His death was nothing short of a tragedy. It most certainly had nothing to do with me.”

  “Are you sure?” Annja pulled out her phone and played back Una’s final message on speaker so everyone in the room could hear her voice through the sobs. “Whether she’s right or not, she was certainly gunning for you.”

  Thorssen looked genuinely shocked. He wasn’t a good enough actor to fake that level of surprise. He’d had no idea the old woman was possibly coming here. Maybe she’d never gotten beyond picketing his office, or maybe Annja had been right before when she’d thought about a big scene on the hustings, taking him on in front of the cameras. The bereaved mother confronting the fascist for all the world to see?

  “I have been out all night. Business in the city. Have we had visitors, Mother?”

  The old woman didn’t answer immediately. In that pause between the question and the denial Annja knew Viveka Thorssen was lying when she said, “No.”

  “There you have it, I’m afraid. No one’s been here. Now, if you still want me to contribute to your documentary, might I suggest we drop this entire line of questioning? Your viewers aren’t interested in this nonsense, and neither, frankly, am I.”

  Annja could see the anger swell within him. Whether it was a trick of the light, with it finally moving toward true darkness at this late hour, or whether it was something more sinister, it was almost as though he was physically swelling along with his anger.

  He threw back his shoulders, pushing out his chest with a deep intake of breath.

  In that moment the crimson-streaked shirt he wore seemed incapable of containing him, the buttons close to bursting. Karl Thorssen was oblivious to the bloodstains soaking it.

  “Kalle? You’re bleeding,” his mother said, bringing the seeping red
smears to his attention.

  Thorssen shrugged. “There was an animal on the track that needed dealing with. It’s nothing,” he said. There was something of the way he had addressed the crowd at the rally in how he spoke now, but rather than directing them to stand against a common enemy, he was telling the three of them to ignore the evidence before their eyes. He stood there in a bloody shirt, insisting it meant nothing. And if he hadn’t seemed so furious she might have believed him. He was that good.

  “Turn that camera off,” Thorssen snarled, wheeling around on Garin. “You aren’t going to make me look like some raving lunatic for your tacky show. Kill it. Now.” The red light might be on, but so was the lens cap. She hated Garin at that moment. Thorssen wasn’t an idiot; he’d realize her so-called cameraman was a fake. Before she could intercede, Thorssen’s rage bubbled over. He advanced on Garin, leaving any semblance of control behind as he let loose a bestial roar, red in tooth and nail.

  Annja stared at the politician, not sure what she was seeing: he tore at this shirt, revealing skin covered with splits and suppurating sores, the desiccated flesh sloughed from him like a snake’s, dead scales no longer needed. What was it? A sort of virus? A flesh-eating bacteria that had somehow clung to the sword?

  She scrambled to her feet as Thorssen yanked the sacking away from the blade he’d tried to smuggle into the house. The metal shone but despite its obvious newness she knew instinctively it was an ancient weapon, not a newly forged copy of the relic. This was the find that had cost Lars Mortensen his life. The blade of a fallen hero, a mythical man, though not so mythical a blade, after all. This was Nægling.

  His mother’s bellowing cry broke the moment but Thorssen was beyond any compassion or concern. He wasn’t in there anymore, or if he was, it was only a shred of the man he had once been. Whatever was happening to him, whatever was happening to his flesh, was changing him. He was something else now. Something monstrous. Something dangerous.

  “What’s going on with you?” Annja kept her voice steady despite the fear pulsing through her veins. Beneath the ruined skin, there was a glistening layer of new flesh....

  “I am becoming what I was always intended to be.”