Songbird (Daniel Trokics Series Book 3)

by Inger Wolf

  But she was worried about her good friend. A week earlier, she’d received a strange email from Maja. Distant, oddly so. As if she were writing only because she felt she had to. Yet Clara sensed something in the email. Fear. Clara hadn’t yet written back. She checked her mail every time she was on her computer; apparently, Maja only remembered her Hotmail address, though she seldom used it anymore. Everyone else used her new email.

  She slipped her arm out from under the girl’s head and sat up with a jerk. The girl lifted her head and stared at Clara with blurry eyes.

  The girl’s accent was thick. “Where are you going?”

  “Shhhh, just into the living room. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  There was something about email, this digital child of the letter. The words seemed less solid. Lighter. Maybe more honest, too. Whereas a letter had weight and a physical form that took an effort to be forgotten, emails lived shorter lives. Maja may not have sent all that many emails, but when she did, she seemed more open somehow than when she was physically present. And that was a mixed blessing, for sometimes she also showed more complex sides of herself that bothered Clara. A lot. Sometimes she felt that the past, back when they were playmates, bound them together more than anything. But Clara was the type who naturally cared about people, even when others didn’t return her concern.

  She padded bare-footed into the living room and turned on her computer. The room lit up. She logged onto Hotmail and stared uneasily at the screen. Another email from Maja. When had that come in? She counted back: six days. The day after she’d received Maja’s last email. She clicked on the subject line and began reading what proved to be a disturbing email.

  It was a dream, almost nothing more. They talked a lot about their dreams, tried to interpret them. Dreams as a distorted image of reality, a gate to another world.

  Dear Clara. I sleep so badly, and I have the most horrible dreams every night. It’s like I’m being pulled down into a bottomless well, full of black creatures. I can only see their silhouettes. And there’s a forest right beside it. A living organism. I’m alone in the well, and all I can hear is my own shallow breathing. It’s like I’ve lost myself, I don’t have any borders, I don’t know where I start or stop. All my senses down there are sharp as knives. Everything is painfully precise. Then it all changes. Gray horses with stiff hair and eyes like big empty marbles walk towards me. They smell rotten. This morning I woke up with this feeling that an animal was living in my mouth, and I went out to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to make sure there wasn’t one. But it was only me staring back with empty eyes. It was frightening. Somebody said once that a mirror image is like a curious house between reality and illusion. It feels like that’s where I am. But when I got back to the bedroom, I really could smell them. The gray horses. And the smell wasn’t like normal horses, it was more like predators, and it hung like a fog over my bed. And then I realized that I smelled too. From anxiety. Like prey. I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I think I’m getting sick. I don’t remember. Everything is just holes. Write me. Maja

  Clara swallowed and sat back in her chair. The hair on her arms, her legs, all over her body stood on end; it was the most horrifying thing she’d ever read. And it was shocking to know her friend was walking around with such terrible thoughts. Her chest hurt, and tears were welling up. What was going on? And why hadn’t she called if she felt so bad? The words gnawed at her; fear shot down her spine and wrapped around her legs like an icy robe. The email was six days old. An eternity.

  She checked her watch and calculated the time difference. Just before eight in the morning in Denmark. Determined now, she jumped up off the sofa and fished her phone out of her bag. She called her friend’s cell phone, but there was no connection. Maja had a landline number, and Clara called. To her surprise, a male voice answered.

  “Århus Police.”

  “I must’ve dialed the wrong number, sorry.” How embarrassing. And awkward. But the voice kept saying things that felt all wrong.

  “Who did you want to speak to?”

  “A friend of mine. Sorry to bother you.”

  “Maja Nielsen?”

  Clara’s hands shook and her heart pounded against the walls of her chest. Which it had been doing for quite some time, she realized. The words she spoke sounded tiny to her. “Yes. Maja.”

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you, Maja Nielsen was found dead yesterday morning.”

  The anonymous voice was solemn, grave. Heavy as the muggy air outside. She could barely breathe.

  The clangy noise of New York outside framed the silence that followed. The siren of a firetruck pierced the soundscape. In her mind, she saw a photo of Maja wearing a graduation cap, a red rose in her hand. So long ago. And more images: Maja drunk, singing at a New Year’s Eve party in high heels. The girl she knew so well. Or did she? Hadn’t it always felt as if something was lurking under the surface? She thought about the city’s light, so luminous that it could be seen from space. The light of life. Turned off from time to time.

  “Hello,” the voice said. So far away, like a faint whisper. “Are you still there?”

  Finally, she answered, though her voice broke. “Yes. Please tell me it’s not true.”

  “I’m afraid it is. Where are you calling from?”

  “New York.”

  “That explains why you haven’t heard. I’m very sorry,” he repeated. And he meant it, she heard that. He felt for her. Which made her heart pound even harder; when someone speaks that way, they’re telling the truth.

  “How did she die?”

  “We don’t know yet, not exactly. She was found in Town Hall Park. We would very much like to speak to everyone who knew Maja; it’s important for our investigation. I’ll have one of our detectives call. When is a good time for you?”

  Clara glanced over at her computer blinking in the dark. Something told her that her trip to Denmark, to the silver anniversary, was going to happen sooner than she had expected.

  “You can call any time. But I’m coming home soon.”

  A minute later, after hanging up, she was left to her dark thoughts. And when she crawled back under the blankets, she began wondering what her friend had kept hidden from her.

  Thursday, May 7

  Chapter Ten

  Trokic eyed Christiane Bach as he followed her down the hallway. The short meeting with her the day before had brought back uncomfortable memories of her obsession. On the other hand, she’d been very young, not much older than a child. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. And from what he’d heard, a lot of men, too.

  She’d spoken only a few words since he’d arrived, but now she said, “We checked her blood samples yesterday. We do several routine tests. One of our techs will explain all about it.”

  She led him into a white conference room every bit as sterile as the rest of the Institute. At once, he spotted an enormous woman in her late forties wearing a thick green cardigan. Her glasses were square, and her reddish-orange curly hair seemed to defy gravity, the way it stuck out to the sides. The woman sent them a friendly smile over her double chin, and despite the early hour, she helped herself to a cookie from the bowl on the table.

  “This is Henriette Mortensen,” Christiane said. “She’s one of the country’s leading forensic chemists, luckily for you.”

  Trokic shook her hand. The orange-haired woman chomped away at the cookie, blushed at the compliment, and took over.

  “As you know, it’s usual in cases like this to perform routine analyses to determine precisely the circumstances surrounding a death, and to eliminate the influence of various drugs.

  That includes alcohol and medications like sleeping pills, tranquilizers, psychotropic drugs, opiates, and amphetamines. And to do this, we use gas chromatography, which separates the compounds.”

  She launched into a long science-fictionish account of UV absorption, fluorescence, and electrochemical detectors that Trokic could easily have
done without.

  “All our analyses have been negative with the most common medications,” the woman continued. “Which leaves us with the question of what could have caused the high levels we found. We’re going to test for some of the more common poisons, but I’m not optimistic. Many of them have a very strong taste that can be difficult to conceal.”

  Trokic wondered how anyone could know what a poison tasted like. Were there people who risked their lives and tried them out? Maybe some managed to stammer out their taste buds’ verdict before keeling over.

  Henriette Mortensen sent them another smile that revealed small yellow teeth. She gazed down at her hands as if they held the answers. Suddenly, Trokic had an absurd impression; here they were, discussing something incomprehensibly small. All the way down to life’s tiniest details. And these minuscule molecules, which in turn were composed of oxygen, hydrogen, and whatever other atoms in an infinity of chemical bonds and structures, with electrons, protons, and neutrons—these molecules could solve the mystery. You simply couldn’t say the answer was simple.

  “According to her medical records, she wasn’t taking any medications, so if you found pills or anything else suspicious at her apartment, we would appreciate knowing. In the meantime, we’ll send this sample to Stockholm. I think someone there will be able to help us; they have different equipment at their disposal. And though I hate to say it, they have more experience too.”

  “But just looking at her symptoms, and they’re also noted in her medical records, do you have even the tiniest idea of what it could be?” Trokic said. “All this sounds like a long process to me.”

  “Possibly…” Mortensen hesitated. “But her records are vague, and as I said, I need to talk to my colleagues in Stockholm. Really, I can’t promise anything. You’re going to have to accept that.”

  Trokic wasn’t sure he could. He couldn’t even hide his impatience. “And how long will that take?”

  “That will depend on how difficult it is, won’t it?” Mortensen fired back. “Many substances resemble each other, and that might set us on the right track. But we will get back to you as soon as humanly possible, whether we’re successful or not.”

  When Trokic returned to his car, his phone rang.

  “Hi.” Lisa Kornelius sounded serious and troubled. “We’ve just been handed a case by the Emergency Agency. An animal rights activist was the victim of a hit-and-run yesterday evening out in Tilst. Her name is Anja Mikkelsen. They say she was walking alone in the dark, on the left side of a deserted stretch of road, and the driver hit her from behind.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, she’s in a coma at Skejby Hospital. But it looks bad.”

  Trokic gazed thoughtfully through his front windshield. Two acts of violence within such a short period of time. People losing their lives. His town suddenly seemed cold and gloomy. “Since you’re already up to date on this, drive over to Skejby and check on her condition. Then find out if there were witnesses.”

  “But I have to—”

  “Whatever you have to do, do it later.” Trokic hung up.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rammstein thundered through the office like a freight train as Trokic began skimming a newspaper article some joker had laid on his desk. The article was about a new environmentally-sound, space-saving method of burial. The body was stuck into a steel cylinder, a type of pressure cooker, and with the help of lye, heat, and pressure, it was dissolved into a liquid the color of coffee, with the consistency of motor oil. Theoretically, the survivors could say their last goodbyes and pour the remains down the drain. So far, no Danish funeral director had tried out the new method.

  The session at the Forensic Institute was still on his mind. Had Maja been experimenting with drugs they didn’t know about? Possibly because of her mental instability? Or was it the other way around? But who would voluntarily enter a nightmarish world that led to self-destruction?

  Taurup entered the office through rippling shadows just as Trokic pushed the article aside and turned down the German band. He frowned and tried to look gruff. “I wish I could light a cigarette. Every time one of you walk in or call, all I hear is bad news. And there’s enough of that right now; people are dropping like flies.”

  Taurup took a bite of the banana in his hand and raised his eyebrows. “Bad night’s sleep? Sounds like it.”

  “So, what do you want?” Trokic patted down his rooster tail; the creature had completely taken over his nest of black hair that day, despite an extra dose of hair wax.

  “The press. They’re waiting for you. All of them.”

  “Me? Why me?”

  “Agersund is sick, if you remember. And you’re next in line.”

  Lieutenant Detective Daniel Trokic and his disobedient hair entered the briefing room in a black mood. He gazed out at the assemblage of approximately fifteen journalists and photographers with their dangling press cards and blitz-heavy cameras, then he slapped a sheet of paper full of scribbled notes on the table. Jasper sat hunkered down in the chair beside him.

  Successful press briefings were important. Not only did they prevent journalists from too much speculation and outright flights of fantasy, but they were also an excellent way of reaching out to people with knowledge of the victim. What the media definitely wouldn’t be getting their hands on, however, was the information he’d just received from the Forensics Institute. Trokic could just see the screaming headlines.

  “Morning. I’m Lieutenant Detective Daniel Trokic. I know you all want to hear about Maja Nielsen.” He tried to appear accommodating, though he realized immediately that no matter how vital, he would never like this part of Agersund’s job.

  Several in the room nodded, and a few of them looked up at him as if he’d fallen from heaven.

  “Where’s Agersund?” a reporter from Stiften was so bold to ask. As if radical changes were afloat.

  “Unfortunately, he couldn’t make it today. I’ll answer your questions as best I can, as long as they don’t interfere with our investigation.”

  Mumbling spread throughout the room; someone in the corner even grumbled. Most of them had likely known Agersund their entire careers, and they knew precisely what they could and couldn’t pry out of him. Some of them even sent him a bottle of wine at Christmas. Generally, they considered it essential to keep on his good side.

  Finally, a man with a long chin beard spoke. “Shut up, everybody.” The buzz in the room stopped, and a small woman with almost pure-white hair, a brown tent for a skirt, and a notebook a size too big for her stepped in like a kid jumping the line at the movies.

  “Have you found the murder weapon? I heard something about a hammer; can you confirm that?”

  No beating around the bush today, Trokic thought. Several other journalists nodded in support. He could already imagine articles with the dramatic intensity of a nineteenth-century Russian novel. That was to be avoided, but on the other hand, he’d often watched Agersund feed them crumbs.

  “First and foremost, we’re treating this case as a suspicious death, not a homicide. As it stands now, we can’t rule out suicide.”

  The room fell silent; that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. The scratching of pens stopped, and they stared up at him in suspicion. Suicide sold fewer papers than homicide.

  “But how?” the man with the chin beard asked. “She couldn’t have taken her own life in Town Hall Park; someone killed her. They must have.”

  Another reporter spoke up. “And isn’t it right she had numerous broken bones, that she must’ve been beaten to death? With a hammer, for example?”

  Trokic stared back at them. Where did they get all these stories? Then he remembered: she’d been found by a young guy, who must have noticed all the broken bones. And now the rumors were spreading like wildfire through town. The type of rumors nearly impossible to prevent and completely impossible to control. But before he could answer, Taurup took over.

  “Technical evidence leads us to believe
she died somewhere else.”

  Another reporter broke in. “Can you describe the technical evidence? Can we get some details here?”

  The mood in the room was picking up.

  “The autopsy has shown that she fell from a significant height,” Trokic said. “In all likelihood from the fifth floor of a building or higher. Which eliminates her own apartment. That’s why we’re interested in locating where she fell, regardless of whether it’s a suicide or homicide. There was also quite a bit of dirt on her clothes. You can pass that on to your readers; maybe one of them can help us find the place.”

  There it was, the crumb. A delicious main course for them, actually, with exciting ingredients to speculate on. As they scribbled furiously, Trokic hoped he hadn’t screwed up. He shuddered at the thought of the station’s phones ringing off the hook.

  An attractive young female journalist with her hair set up in a bun asked, “Could it be a construction site?”

  Trokic froze. It was true, Maja could have been lying at a construction site or someplace being dug out. She’d been dirty enough. But they’d been focused on so many other things that they hadn’t yet begun to kick around ideas like that.

  The journalist smiled when she noticed his reaction.

  “So, that’s a possibility?” a senior journalist called out. The pack had sniffed out another crumb.

  “Or maybe someone dumped her there first and then moved her to the park later,” another journalist suggested. “Maybe he changed his mind or got interrupted.”