Karen gives her a look but says nothing about the fact that Linus Kvanne hardly seems the type to deftly avoid leaving any trace behind for the technicians to find.
‘We did find the bike he claims he used to get to the village,’ she says instead. ‘He nicked it from one of the farms south of Grunder after crashing the yellow motorcycle. Also, the doctor tells me he has a fractured right collarbone and some scrapes and bruises on one hip, which supports that part of his story.’
The prosecutor lets out a snort of laughter.
‘Poor baby. There he was, hurt and with a backpack full of stolen goods. And he had to stick to the back roads down to Langevik to avoid the police after his burglaries. A truly touching picture.’
Karen smiles against her will.
‘When you have time to read the entire report, you’ll notice that we’ve been able to verify that Kvanne did make the phone calls he claims to have made. Jörgen Bäckström, an old junkie – actually, you probably know who he is – has confirmed he had four missed calls when he woke up that afternoon, the day after Oistra. One from his mother and three from Linus Kvanne, all of which had gone to voicemail. Which is hardly surprising; I can’t imagine Jörgen was in a state to talk that night. Much less in a state to drive out to Langevik to pick up his stranded mate.’
‘And so instead Kvanne broke into Susanne’s house, killed her and took her car. We’re just going to have to do our best to explain the thing about him leaving no trace in the car. I know the boys are thorough, but can’t they go over it again?’
‘Unfortunately, no. The car has been released. But to be fair, Larsen would never release it unless he was 100 per cent sure. If Kvanne did drive that car, he must’ve been wearing both gloves and a hairnet. Or maybe he’s just unbelievably lucky.’
Karen stands up. She doesn’t let on what she’s thinking: that Kvanne might not have broken into Susanne Smeed’s house at all; that he might just have been in the vicinity, like he claims. That Linus Kvanne might in fact be unbelievably unlucky. And she says nothing about her sneaking suspicion that whoever killed Susanne Smeed is still out there. Maybe if she’d a name, or at least a plausible motive, but a vague hunch . . . No, this time, Karen keeps her mouth shut.
‘Well, I’ve done what I can,’ she says. ‘I’m handing the case over to you guys. You’ll have the complete report in your inbox before the end of the day. And then I finally get to have some time off. Both Haugen and Smeed are pretty happy I’m going away,’ she adds with a wry smile.
Dineke Vegen has stood up as well and extends her hand with a smile.
‘Yes, I heard you’re due a vacation. And I want to thank you. If anything comes up while you’re gone, I’ll take it to Jounas. Where are you off to?’
‘North-east France. I own a share of a vineyard down there and was planning on helping out with whatever harvest chores still need doing.’
‘It’s not in Alsace, is it?’
‘It is, actually. What would you say to a bet?’
‘Sure. What are the terms?’
‘If your charges against Kvanne hold up, I’ll give you a crate of white.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then I was right. That’s enough for me.’
74
‘So now that you don’t get to play captain anymore, you’re jumping ship.’
Without turning around, Karen watches as the coffee slowly trickles down into the mug she rinsed out just about adequately in the sink. She slowly turns and blows on the hot beverage before raising the mug to her lips. Then she leans her backside against the counter and studies Evald Johannisen, who is standing in the doorway to the small kitchenette.
She doesn’t let on that she just realised she forgot to add sugar and that the bitterness is making her mouth pucker.
‘It’s good to see you, too, Evald,’ she says. ‘I heard you were back. Would you like a cup?’
He pulls a revolted face.
‘Faggot coffee? No thanks, I prefer a good old-fashioned cuppa.’
‘Why am I not surprised? But you really should give it a try. This is good stuff.’
She runs her hand over the brushed steel. Then she flicks the steam wand with her index finger and smiles at her colleague. He eyes her, shaking his head.
‘I suppose the taxpayers are footing the bill,’ he says testily. ‘But apparently that’s just one of many messes Jounas is going to have to clean up.’
‘Is that right?’ she says calmly. ‘What exciting gossip have you picked up this time?’
Evald Johannisen steps into the room, opens the fridge and takes out a can of Coca-Cola. Then he pops the tab, raises the can as though making a toast and takes a couple of deep swigs.
So you did want caffeine after all. Karen raises her own mug in response.
‘Maybe you should be careful, that’s strong stuff,’ she suggests blandly, nodding at the fizzy drink. ‘Can’t be good for the old ticker.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘No, actually, I’m going to France. I’m off on Saturday night. I’ll be sitting on my farm, drinking wine, while you keep your noses to the grindstone up here in the freezing cold.’
Johannisen takes another sip and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘I guess you had to give up in the end,’ he says. ‘Didn’t get to keep wasting time and resources on something that should have been solved in less than a week. That must’ve stung.’
He pulls out a chair and sits down. Then he leans back and crosses his stretched-out legs, raising the can of Coke to his lips for the third time.
‘You’ve been running around asking questions about what happened fifty years ago instead of minding what’s right in front of you,’ he says before taking another sip and letting out an open-mouthed belch.
She stifles a wince and instead cocks her head and smiles.
‘Oh, I see, you and Smeed have had one of your sewing bees. What else did he tell you?’
‘You mean about the time you spent poring over old photo albums, running to the local pub and chatting to old hippies? No, I found that out myself. Jounas asked me to go over your notes and let me tell you, they were not an uplifting read.’
‘And yet you worked your way through them all. I’m touched.’
‘Don’t see that I had much choice; I’m going to be taking over as the prosecutor’s liaison, since you’ve decided to slink off with your tail between your legs.’
‘Great, then you’ve read the transcripts from the interviews with Linus Kvanne, too. I’m sure they were enough to get you on board. They certainly convinced Vegen, Haugen and Smeed. I’m so glad you’re all in agreement.’
‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Just what I said. I’ve given you everything you think you’ll need. Have at it!’
‘So you still don’t think Kvanne did it? Is that what you’re telling me?’
Evald Johannisen snorts and wipes a splash of foam from his chin. Karen studies him without responding, waiting for what’s coming next.
‘I’ve been over every last goddamn crumb of information you coaxed out of those ancient layabouts or managed to pick up while you were gossiping down the pub. Hippies, Danish midwifes and abandoned brats; completely useless, all of it. And, yes, I’ve read the interviews with Kvanne. Seems like an open and shut case to me. If you can’t see that, why are you even here?’
Karen walks over to the sink, rinses out her mug and places it upside down in the dishrack. Then she turns around.
‘You know what, Evald? I’ve been asking myself that very question.’
The last thing she hears as she steps over his outstretched legs and leaves the room is the sound of another belch as effervescence pushes its way out of Evald Johannisen’s throat.
75
The moment Karen pulls the key out of the ignition, her phone buzzes. But the feeling of exhilaration that only yesterday would have accompanied seeing Anne Crosby’s name on her screen
fails to appear; for a couple of seconds she considers simply not picking up.
Her conversation with Brandon and Janet has already cleared up any remaining questions she had. What happened in Langevik almost fifty years ago was a tragedy. That Anne Crosby is the little girl who went back to Sweden with Tomas and Ingela is now beyond doubt. With Cornelis Loots’ help – discreetly provided on the understanding that Jounas mustn’t find out – she has confirmed that Happy was eventually christened Anne and grew up in Malmö with Tomas Ekman, whom she probably assumed was her biological father. In the late eighties, Anne moved to the US to study marketing and eventually married Gregory Crosby, from whom she has now been divorced for six years. The couple have no children; Anne Crosby is registered as single at a Los Angeles address.
That the two sisters, Anne and Susanne, found out about each other only months before Susanne’s death, is a tragic coincidence. But it explains the phone calls to Susanne Smeed, both the ones from Disa Brinckmann and the ones from Anne Crosby herself. Most importantly, Anne is much less likely to have killed Susanne than Linus Kvanne. A woman of almost fifty, and, according to Cornelis Loots, considerable wealth, probably has no interest in beating her new-found sister to death in a remote village on Heimö. Even Karen has come to accept that.
Her mobile rings for the third time and Karen realises she has to answer. After the urgent text she sent Anne Crosby, it would be nothing short of rude not to talk to her, now that she’s finally calling back. She reluctantly hits the green receiver button.
‘Yes, this is Karen Eiken Hornby,’ she says.
‘My name is Anne Crosby. You’ve been trying to reach me?’
The voice is polite but sounds frazzled, almost winded, as though Anne Crosby’s eager to get the call over with. Suits me fine, Karen thinks to herself.
‘Yes, that’s correct. I have been trying to reach you in connection with a death here on Heimö.’
Karen breaks off and there is a brief silence. Does Anne Crosby know her sister is dead? Has she gathered as much from her phone call with Mette?’
‘It’s about Susanne Smeed,’ she says gently. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware that she . . .’
‘Yes, I know Susanne is dead. It’s horrible.’
Anne Crosby speaks curtly and despite her years in the US, her Swedish is virtually perfect, at least to Karen’s ear.
‘The thing is that we’ve gone through Susanne’s call log and your number appeared in it, together with Disa Brinckmann’s. It was her daughter who gave me your name, which made it possible to link you to this number. Since it’s a pay-as-you-go SIM, we wouldn’t have known it was yours otherwise.’
‘Yes, I always use pay-as-you-go when I’m abroad.’
‘Of course, I guess that’s a good idea; apparently it’s easy to rack up a hefty bill pretty quickly if you use your regular contract.’
Karen thinks she can hear something that might be a construction site in the background, but Anne Crosby says nothing.
‘Either way,’ Karen continues, ‘I think I already have the answers I need. The case is pretty much closed at this point. We have a suspect in detention and . . .’
‘Pretty much closed? You’re not sure?’
‘Well, the case is considered solved as far as the police are concerned. Now, it’s a matter of the charges holding up in court.’
There’s a scraping sound on the other end and then the line goes dead silent. For a second, Karen thinks Anne Crosby must’ve hung up.
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she says.
‘I myself am going on leave for a couple of weeks, but if you want, I can ask the person in charge of the case to keep you posted on any developments. If you give me your contact information, I can make sure it gets to the prosecutor’s office.’
‘They can call me on this number.’
‘So you will be staying in Sweden for a while?’
This time, the scraping is so loud, Karen instinctively pulls the phone away from her ear.
‘I’m sorry,’ Anne Crosby says. ‘I’m in an awkward spot.’
‘I will, of course, try to get hold of Disa as well before I go,’ Karen says, ‘but, as you know, that’s not as easy as it sounds. Her daughter tells me she’s finally on her way home. Have you been able to reach her, by the way? Mette said you’ve been trying to get in touch with her, too.’
‘What? No. I mean, not yet.’
‘Well, I’ll give her a ring before I leave. If I can’t reach her, I might drive by Malmö on my way back. I hear it’s a lovely town, and it’s not much of a detour now that there’s a bridge.’
I’m prattling on, she thinks. She’s not interested in my vacation plans and a bit of small talk won’t change the fact that her sister’s dead. A few more seconds of silence and Karen is ready to end the call.
‘So you’re holidaying in Denmark?’
‘I’m going all the way down to France, actually. I’ll be taking the evening ferry over to Esbjerg on Saturday and driving down from there.’
‘Then I wish you safe travels.’
‘Thank you. And also,’ Karen adds, ‘I’m really sorry about your sister.’
76
‘You won’t even know I’m there. Promise.’
‘And how’s that going to work exactly? You’ll be sitting next to me in the car, no? Or were you going to climb in the boot?’
There’s a flash of hope in Sigrid’s eyes.
‘So, are you saying it’s OK? I can come?’
Karen heaves a sigh. Two days of unremitting nagging has started to wear her down. The campaign of persuasion had begun the moment she told Sigrid she was finally free to take leave and would be driving down to see old friends in Alsace. In an angelically pleading voice, Sigrid had committed to paying half of the petrol costs and helping out with the grape harvest, saying France had always been her number one dream destination.
When that got her nowhere, she’d tried a new strategy:
She could actually really need a break from ‘this fucking country’ after everything that’s happened, and also, Sam keeps turning up at the club, which is a ‘fucking shithole’, and she never wants to see him again, so she’s going to quit anyway and start studying after New Year’s (but not because her dad’s badgering her; that ‘sanctimonious prick’ can go to hell). And besides, apparently, Karen won’t even know she’s there.
Jounas would probably have a fit if he found out I’ve gone on vacation with his daughter, Karen sniggers inwardly.
‘Fine,’ she says.
*
After talking to both Kore and Eirik and Marike, however, she realises there’s still one problem to take care of. None of them can housesit and look after Rufus for three weeks. She’s uncomfortable having the cat stay at Marike’s; when the emaciated wretch appeared out of nowhere less than a year ago, he’d shown signs of having wandered. It’s not unlikely he would run away from Marike’s and try to get back home. He might get taken by a fox or, even more likely, run over.
Granted, she could ask a neighbour to feed him, but given how persistently he seeks out hers – and now Sigrid’s – company, it feels cruel to leave him alone in the house for weeks on end. Why had she let the bloody cat in in the first place? It hadn’t crossed her mind he would compromise her freedom.
Kore’s suggested solution had felt equally unappealing. And yet, here she is, in her car, between two loading docks in the New Harbour, having circled the dark buildings, peering into nooks and crannies, for twenty minutes. Just as she decides to give up and drive away, Leo Friis appears without warning in her headlights. He’s standing in the middle of a street she’s already driven down at least twice. Seeing him arouses equal parts relief and instinctive urge to leave while she still can. Then she reminds herself the ferry to Esbjerg is leaving in less than twenty-four hours. The day after tomorrow, she could be sitting with the others, sipping a glass of last year’s vintage, gazing out across the vineyard.
She shifts into
neutral, opens the door and climbs out of the car.
‘All right, and what’s the catch?’ Leo Friis says after hearing her out. ‘You’d hardly be asking me if there wasn’t a catch. We don’t know each other.’
He’s eyeing her warily and accepts another cigarette without a word of thanks.
‘Kore’s vouching for you. And you’re hardly the one sticking your neck out here, are you? You’ll simply housesit for me while I’m in France. I need someone there to make sure no one breaks in, to keep an eye on things.’
‘Things . . .?’
‘My cat. Make sure he’s fed and watered and . . . well, stroked and petted.’
‘Aha. So the cat’s the catch. What’s wrong with it?’
Karen can feel her patience wearing thin. Kore’s suggestion to let Leo Friis housesit had sounded like a desperate remedy from the get-go. A filthy homeless guy, probably with a very long list of personal problems.
‘He’s a good guy, underneath it all,’ Kore had told her. ‘Got into all kinds of trouble when the band broke up: drugs and debts and what have you, but he’s a decent sort. Besides, I’m happy to swing by from time to time and keep an eye on him if that makes you feel better. We’ve stayed in touch since that night at Repet. Well, you were there, so you could say you know him, too.’
‘After two pints? And how have you been staying in touch anyway? I doubt he has a phone.’
‘He doesn’t, but I let him sleep in the studio that night and a few more times since. And I’ve had him over for dinner.’
‘At your house? Eirik let you?’
‘It caused a bit of friction, but he agreed in the end. Though I swear he was sweating bullets when Leo flopped onto that white sofa we bought last spring.’
‘Yeah, I can imagine,’ Karen had told him. ‘Fine, do you know where I can find him? Is he still crashing in the studio or is he back under a loading dock in the New Harbour?’
Fatal Isles Page 36