Fatal Crossing

by Lone Theils

  The woman shrugged. ‘Oh. He's always in the vegetable garden. Always. You would think he was a gardener. But he's a good man. Sometimes he brings flowers for me to smell,’ the woman explained.

  ‘Thank you,’ Nora had time to say before the woman was consumed by despair once more.

  ‘I want George. I want him to come now!’

  Nora retreated and looked around for a carer. There was no one in sight. She left the woman to her fate, and continued towards the very end of the corridor where a set of French doors with a double lock led to a formally laid-out garden. The geometric rose beds were flanked by lavender bushes.

  The lawn looked perfect for croquet, but there was little activity in the garden. Along a pergola were benches and tables waiting for Sunday visitors.

  Nora went further out into the garden and finally reached a gap in the hedge, which led to a piece of open land the size of a football pitch. It was divided into small allotments partitioned by picket fences and looked like a smaller version of municipal allotments. At the far end Nora could make out two elderly men who were busy weeding with hoes, and a third who was pushing a wheelbarrow laden with weeds.

  A fat woman with black hair scraped back from her face and an unfiltered cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth was sitting nearby. She was on her mobile to someone she addressed as ‘Darryl darling’, while she kept an occasional eye on the three men.

  As Nora came closer, she could see that one of the men was weeding a carrot bed, while the other had gone to a freestanding tap to fill an old zinc watering can. When the man looked up, she recognised Mr Thompson from the picture in the newspaper. Nora waved, and Mr Thompson waved back with an expression of guilt that this might be yet another face his memory had erased in recent years in the cruellest manner imaginable.

  The woman glared partly with hostility and partly with curiosity at Nora and covered the mouthpiece of the mobile without interrupting her conversation.

  ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

  Nora gestured to Mr Thompson. ‘I have a message for Mr Thompson. From his family,’ Nora said, more or less in accordance with the truth.

  The woman briefly looked as if she was going to stop Nora, but then ‘Darryl darling’ appeared to say something that demanded her attention, and she let Nora pass with a grimace.

  ‘No, no, darling. You know you’re the only one for me,’ she said coyly.

  Nora walked over to Mr Thompson, who was holding a full watering can. He smiled shyly when Nora reached him. ‘Hello, Miss,’ he said kindly.

  ‘Sand,’ Nora introduced herself. ‘Your son asked me to say hello and tell you that he will be here later today to pick you up for Sunday lunch,’ she said before he had time to ask any questions.

  ‘Aha. Dennis,’ he said absent-mindedly, and made his way towards a lettuce bed behind the carrots.

  Nora followed him. ‘Do you have a moment to speak to me?’

  He looked at her with surprise. ‘What about? Dennis?’

  She shook her head and guided him to a ramshackle bench leaning against a black painted tool shed. Mr Thompson perched on the edge of the bench with a nervous glance at the woman who was still talking away on her mobile.

  ‘I can only sit down for a little while. They don’t like us taking too many breaks,’ he explained.

  Nora nodded and got straight to the point. ‘Mr Thompson. It's about your boat. About a discovery you made on a fishing trip.’

  Mr Thompson shook his head; he looked confused. ‘But Dennis has the boat now. I’m sorry, but if you’re from the Marine Management Organisation, you need to speak to him,’ he said.

  Nora tried fixing his attention.

  ‘So you’re not here about Dennis, after all?’ he said anxiously.

  ‘It was that day, Mr Thompson, when the body of a young man got caught up in your net. Do remember that day?’

  Nora could see immediately that this was a memory that hadn’t yet left the old fisherman's brain. He shuddered although he was sitting in the sunshine, and she saw him press his lips together.

  ‘Yes. It was a horrible, horrible day.’

  ‘What happened, Mr Thompson — please can you tell me what happened that day?’

  He raised his head and looked into the distance. ‘Albert and I had landed some cod and the plan was that on the way home we put out the net one extra time. I wish we never had.’ He gulped. ‘We tried ... we tried to look at his face to see if he was someone we knew...’

  The corners of his mouth turned down in disgust or regret. It was hard for Nora to decide. ‘But his face had got caught in the propeller.’

  Nora let the sentence hang in the air between them.

  ‘Did you notice if he had any tattoos?’

  Mr Thompson closed his eyes to concentrate harder. ‘A big bison on his upper arm. I remember I kept staring at it in order not to look at his face. It had been shredded. And the fish had got his eyes.’

  He turned to Nora again and grabbed her upper arm. ‘They had got his eyes!’

  Then he shook his head and looked straight at her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. I’m very forgetful these days. Do I know you? Why are you here?’

  Nora didn’t have time to open her mouth before the woman with the mobile loomed large in front of her. She had been forced to interrupt her conversation with ‘Darryl darling’, something that hadn’t improved her mood.

  ‘Who are you and what do you think you’re you doing here?’ she demanded to know.

  ‘Well, I’m here to —’

  ‘ID, please,’ the woman insisted.

  Nora dug her heels in. ‘Mr Thompson is an adult. I don’t have to show ID to speak to him about a private matter,’ she said firmly.

  ‘You’re on private property,’ the woman retorted.

  ‘Yes, but I’m visiting one of your guests. At his request. Isn’t that right, Mr Thompson?’ she asked, appealing to him in the hope that his support would end the argument.

  But Mr Thompson had already got up. ‘I’ll go check on the carrots,’ he announced and padded down to the corner of the vegetable garden without looking back.

  The carer refused to be placated.

  Nora decided to leave too. ‘Right, I’ve given Mr Thompson my message, so there's no need for me —’ she said.

  She got up so abruptly that her purse fell out of her handbag and her British press card landed picture side up with the black letters on the bright yellow background announcing that Nora Sand was a member of the British press, and that anyone who doubted the validity of this information could call Scotland Yard and have it confirmed.

  ‘You’re staying here,’ the woman snarled and pushed her back on the bench. ‘I need to speak to my manager about this. No one has given a journalist permission to sniff around here. That much I do know.’

  Nora's anger surged and settled in icy outrage at the woman's demonstration of power. She knew that in about three microseconds, she could have the woman lying flat on the grass in such agony that it would block out thoughts of Darryl for a long time.

  But Enzo had taught her better than that. Right from the start he had made it clear that he only initiated his students into the noble art of kickboxing on the condition that they would never use it anywhere but in the boxing ring.

  ‘When there are signs of battle, what does a true warrior do?’ he would ask over and over, and by now all his students knew the answer so well that they would reply in unison: ‘Use their brains and get out.’

  Nora took a deep breath and focused on the woman once more. ‘Do you know something? I came here to speak to Mr Thompson on a private matter,’ she said, holding a rhetorical pause. ‘But your behaviour makes me think you have something to hide. And that your boss would just love it if you were to provoke me into investigating what that might be.’

  Nora saw doubt appear in the woman's eyes. The carer's usual bullying technique, highly effective with frail and semi-senile elderly people and their anxious relatives, had no effec
t on Nora.

  The carer had two options: let the reporter leave or carry out her threat to involve the boss.

  Nora watched the inner struggle play out in the carer like a hesitant reader mouthing words to themselves. Finally the desire to escape censure and the fear of being held accountable won; it was above her pay grade.

  ‘I’ll have to check with Mrs Rosen,’ the woman said and spun around on her heel. Three steps later she turned and pinned her harshly made-up eyes on Nora. ‘Stay here,’ she ordered her sternly.

  Nora shrugged. She had all the time in the world. Even with his weak memory, Mr Thompson had confirmed, to the extent that he could, that Oluf was the man whose corpse he had salvaged. The chances of it being someone else with a bison tattoo were non-existent, in Nora's opinion. The only question was what had he been doing off the coast of Brine?

  And was there a link to Hix? And what about Lisbeth and Lulu? Had Oluf come looking for them here? It made no sense. He had come to the UK to box. That much was clear, and there was nothing to indicate that the girls’ disappearance had upset him to the extent that he had devoted the rest of his life to finding out what had happened to them.

  If anyone still cared about the girls, it was ironically the man who was supposed to be the toughest guy of the group: Bjarke. But he seemed genuine in his wish to get to the truth.

  Hopefully her meeting with DC Summers and her father, Dale Moss, would pay off and provide her with an explanation for what Oluf had been doing so far away from his planned boxing tour. And perhaps they could suggest an answer as to why his life had ended in the bay.

  Nora's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of crunching gravel. The carer was marching down the garden path at a speed that suggested it was an urgent matter.

  ‘Mrs Rosen will see you now,’ she said, looking as if she had just informed Nora that she had been granted a rare audience with the Queen.

  ‘I’ll escort you to her office,’ she sniffled. And added in a tone of voice that was probably meant to be ominous: ‘I hope you can come up with a really good explanation. Or we may have to call the police.’

  Nora eyed her coolly. ‘As far as I’m concerned we can call DC Summers right now. I’ve nothing to hide,’ she said.

  The woman made no reply, but opened a side door into the main building, which led to a small hall. A brass plate with cursive letters on a heavy, dark-varnished door announced that this was the office of Mrs Rosen, the warden of Cedar Residence.

  The carer knocked timidly, as if she were a servant from another era, and it crossed Nora's mind that if she showed the elderly residents the same respect, their stay at Cedar Residence could be improved several times over.

  ‘Enter.’

  The voice was firm, and Nora just had time to visualise a terrifying matron with broad shoulders, fat ankles and dressed in an impeccable suit, before the door swung open to reveal the exact opposite.

  Mrs Rosen was beautiful and gentle to look at. She was wearing a dusky pink dress that fell softly over her body and her blond hair was put up in a loose bun. More than anything she looked like she was advertising detergent or Werther's Original toffees — a fantasy housewife who had just put an apple pie on the windowsill to cool.

  Her handshake was firm and warm, and her blue eyes studied Nora through a pair of gold-framed spectacles, which were designed to exude authority and calm at the same time.

  ‘Right, would you like to sit down? Miss ...?’

  ‘Sand,’ Nora said.

  ‘Miss Sand,’ Mrs Rosen echoed, and gestured to two carved wooden chairs in front of a walnut desk, clearly put there to handle conversations with anxious relatives.

  Nora perched on the edge of one chair and looked expectantly at Mrs Rosen. She had made up her mind to let the warden start the conversation.

  Mrs Rosen sat down behind her desk, folded her hands in front of her and observed Nora for a moment. ‘Well, Miss Sand. You seem to have upset not only our residents, but also Mrs Fletcher,’ she started.

  Nora looked steadily back at her without saying anything.

  ‘I gather that you’re a journalist. Would you mind telling me what exactly you’re doing here?’

  Nora shrugged. ‘I’m here to visit Mr Thompson. That's all.’

  Mrs Rosen looked almost sad. ‘And would you mind telling me why you needed to speak to Mr Thompson?’ she continued in a tone of voice that more than suggested she didn’t believe Nora.

  ‘Yes, I would mind, as it happens. As far as I’m aware, Mr Thompson is entitled to a private life, whether or not he's in a care home. Or perhaps I’m wrong?’

  Nora saw the rage flash across Mrs Rosen's face as swiftly as if someone had pulled the emergency brake on a train. But then she reined in her emotions and composed her facial features. The rage sank below her chin where it sat tight and throbbing in her neck, Nora noticed.

  ‘ Of course Mr Thompson is entitled to a private life, of course he is,’ Mrs Rosen said in a placating voice. ‘Only I have a hunch that there is — how can I put it — some other reason for your presence here ...’

  Nora said nothing. Instead her eyes scanned the bookcase behind Mrs Rosen. Everything had been done to make the office seem like an extension of a private home in order to divert attention from the fact that it was an institution, a business, which every month collected astronomical amounts from families that couldn’t cope with looking after their elderly, decrepit, incontinent or senile parents, and it eased their conscience somewhat if they bought their way out of the problem in the private sector.

  The books in the bookcase would reassure anyone that quality of life and care were the priorities here. There were books with recipes for jam and chutney, books on walking in the Scottish Highlands, places of interest in Shropshire; she even spotted a copy of the New Testament on the bottom shelf.

  Mrs Rosen shifted nervously on her chair. ‘Miss Sand. What I’m trying to understand is why you think it's appropriate to turn up without an appointment, and what you’re doing here in the first place?’

  Nora turned her attention back to her again. ‘Mrs Rosen. I owe you no explanation for why I’m here, except the one I’ve already given you, which also happens to be the truth. I came to visit Mr Thompson. That's all,’ she said archly. ‘I’m a journalist, that's correct, but I don’t work for a British newspaper. I work for a Danish weekly magazine called Globalt. You’ve probably never heard of it, and I’ve no plans to uncover appalling conditions in the British care system, if that's what you’re worried about,’ she continued. ‘Although I’m starting to think that I ought to, or tip off a British colleague, because everyone here acts as if they’ve something to hide.’

  Mrs Rosen coughed. ‘Danish?’ she said.

  ‘Yes,’ Nora said. ‘So you can relax. Whatever's going on here, if your staff steal from petty cash, put the old folks to bed at four in the afternoon or starve them, it's not my business. I’m here in connection with an old criminal investigation, which has links to Denmark. It has nothing to do with you or your care home, but Mr Thompson might have some information. That was all,’ she said.

  ‘What kind of ... information?’ Mrs Rosen asked.

  ‘That's confidential,’ Nora said.

  After a pause, which was so protracted that she became aware of a clock ticking in the room next door and chatter from a radio that might be on in the kitchen, Mrs Rosen took a deep breath and produced a rather forced smile.

  ‘Miss Sand. I believe that we got off on the wrong foot. I would like to help you in any way I can,’ she said.

  Nora looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Let's start over. I’ll make us some tea, and then you can tell me what you’ve found out so far,’ she said and caught Nora's look of disbelief. ‘I mean, whatever you feel comfortable disclosing to me. Perhaps I can be of use,’ she said and got up. ‘Please excuse me. I’ll just go to the kitchen to fetch the tea.’

  While she was gone, Nora checked her mobile.

  N
o one had called her. There wasn’t even a text message from Andreas, only a small window announcing that her battery was down to less than thirty per cent. She slipped her mobile back into her trouser pocket.

  Clattering teacups announced Mrs Rosen's arrival before she entered the room, balancing a tray with a rose-patterned teapot, two cups, a sugar bowl and a milk jug and a small plate of chocolate biscuits.

  As she bent over to pour the tea, Nora detected a faint scent like that of clothes that had been stored in a cupboard with lavender bags to deter mould and moths. It was as if someone had tried to cover up the stench of death, old people and disease with perfume — yet she could still smell what lay beneath.

  Nora took her teacup. Suddenly she felt overcome by hunger and exhaustion, and she couldn’t wait to return to London, climb into bed and pull the duvet over her head. She selected a sugar lump and gave it plenty of time to dissolve before adding milk.

  Mrs Rosen watched her with a stiff smile. ‘Right. So tell me everything. What's this case about?’

  Nora took a big gulp. The tea was perfect, hot and sweet, exactly what she needed. ‘Mrs Rosen, how long have you lived in this town?’

  The warden shrugged. ‘Years. Why do you ask?’

  Nora wondered whether to ask Mrs Rosen if she knew anything about Bill Hix and his connection to the area. Suddenly it seemed like an insurmountable task. Far too complicated. In fact, right now Nora didn’t know if she could even summon up the energy to get up and walk to her car. She was bushed. Dog-tired. Of Andreas. Of this bloody case. Of Mrs Rosen, whose face was starting to blur at the edges. Whose eyes were growing bigger and bigger. Then they expanded and contracted in a manner that simultaneously fascinated and terrified Nora more than she could express.

  ‘I’m sorry. I suddenly feel very tired. You don’t happen to have Nora began, but halfway through her sentence, she could no longer remember what she wanted to say.

  ‘Yes, you’re tired,’ Mrs Rosen said, and she didn’t sound entirely unkind.