Ida, on the other hand, he admired. She had spark and a lot of potential. So why was she wasting her talents up at Strandhøj? Her smiling face popped into his head. Oh, yes, she was very pretty too. He blinked his eyes and made a mental note to pursue that. Hadn’t he just recently overheard her mentioning a gap year to Maria? Their current office girl would soon be leaving them and Ida would make a great replacement. Yes, he’d ask her tonight. Strike while the iron is hot. Martin’s personal motto. He didn’t let opportunities slip through his fingers. His raised his right hand and swept the hair back behind his ear.
Martin edged the BMW slowly down the ramp towards the street and waited for a couple of bikes to pass. He checked himself in the rear-view mirror and ran his hand over his cheek and jaw. He’d exfoliated this morning and had used both primer and moisturiser. He was pleased with what he saw, and settled his back into the heated seat. The car turned silently out into the quiet street, heading left along the coast towards Æblegården nursery. It should only take four or five minutes, even with this morning’s hard frost on the roads. Though there was a perfectly good clock on the dashboard, Martin constantly checked the Rolex on his arm. The sight of it, between his crisp white shirt cuff and his tanned hand pleased him. Yes, they’d be there in plenty of time. Maria would have his guts for garters if they arrived after the 9 am watershed.
Continuing silence from the back seat. Mathias and Mathilde had been well taught by their mother. It was some small consolation to him that at least they didn’t pout. Not yet. But that day would surely come.
“Hey, it’s Thursday, tur dag. Do you kids know where you’re off to today?”
“The beach!” shouted Mathias. Unable to keep up the silent treatment any longer.
“Are you sure, Mathias? In this weather?” Martin shivered inwardly and looked out his left window at the pavement which had been white with ice since Christmas. He was definitely not the nature-loving, outdoorsy type, unless it involved skiing on the French slopes or dining alfresco with clients. For him, being outside didn’t involve any kind of action as such, but more the fact of being seen. In the right light and circumstances. And the right clothes, of course.
“Yes, far! We’re going to collect branches, there are lots of them down at the beach. Because Jannick, you know Jannick? He’s nice, he plays football with me and Victor. And he’s really good at drawing dragons.” Mathias turned to Mathilde and tried to scare her. “Roarrrrrrrrrrrr!” Mathilde looked at him blankly and hugged her small, white fluffy rabbit even closer to her.
“Do you like dragons, far? But Jannick’s really good at building castles, too. Isn’t he, Mathilde? I think castles are cool. But I like football better. So does Victor. Well, Jannick said that if we get enough branches we’ll make a bonfire in the playground this afternoon.”
“Uh huh.” Martin had far more important things on his mind at this very instant. Like where he should buy his morning coffee. His usual fix was a skinny double shot latte from the tiny café near his office. But that could entail a potentially treacherous walk on icy pavements. He also spared a loving thought for his leather shoes and decided that, no, he would play it safe and stop at a petrol station on the way.
“And Karin said, if we get enough branches, and if Jannick makes a bonfire, she’ll make us a giant bowl of dough. And you know what you can do with the dough, far?”
“Hmm?” He was still weighing the pros and cons. The petrol station didn’t do juice shots. No, he’d go to the bar. Nadja knew his usual order and, what’s more, Nadja knew immediately the second Martin came through the door whether he had time to linger. Whether she should chat or leave him alone with his headset. He appreciated the little details like that – that was great customer service. Nadja’s smiling face popped up in his head. He blinked his eyes, the decision was made. He would start the day with a power vitamin shot. It would be a long day, after all.
“Make snobrød! Yum! And then we’ll have bonfire bread for our afternoon snack. Isn’t that right, Mathilde?”
Mathilde, suddenly brought back to life, nodded. She lifted up fluffy Ninka Rabbit and pressed her against her cold nose. And glowed. Snobrød! She couldn’t think of anything better than snobrød. Well, perhaps snobrød dipped in strawberry jam.
CHAPTER 6
Bent Bang, having successfully avoided Holy Helle, finished dressing. Every day – rain, wind or shine, Easter or Christmas – started exactly the same way. He cycled down to the Vikings on his old Raleigh. Dip, sauna, dip. Followed by a cup of coffee with the Oldies. Just the way he liked it. The Oldies were a small hard-core group of bathers – many of them founding members of the Vikings – with a longstanding, unwritten agreement to meet on the bathing deck every morning. Or at least every other morning. They had foolishly thought that retirement would give them more time: in fact, most of them were kept busy by constant requests from their children to babysit grandchildren. So every other morning it was.
The men supplied a bottle of Gammel Dansk or Bitter and the ladies took it in turns to bring a thermos of coffee. In the spring, summer and autumn they sat out on the old wooden benches on the deck, looking out to sea. In the dark, dark, depths of winter they enjoyed their wee nip and black coffee in the anteroom to the sauna.
Unlike the majority of their elderly counterparts, the Oldies seemed to age slower. Something they loved to point out to each other, but never bragged about to outsiders. Their body parts didn’t – as they had all feared – droop and head south at such an alarming rate as the rest of the population. Indeed, the longer they bathed, the more their sense of humour and lust for life seemed to increase. The ladies were convinced that their taut, youthful skin and cheery disposition was all down to winter bathing. “Yes, my dears,” as Bent took great delight in pointing out, “we’re just like in that film “Cocoon”, except that our secret is cold Danish sea water!” Other theories were put forward. That being naked before God (“…and each other!” as Bent also took great delight in pointing out) was a humbling and restorative experience for the mind and soul. That the salt, iodine and natural minerals in the seawater had moisturizing, healing and revitalizing effects on the skin. But in the end most of the male Oldies were downright certain that their sprightly condition was all down to one thing: enjoying a wee dram every morning. Skål!
Bent pulled on his old grey overcoat and bright yellow woollen beanie hat. The same he wore every day of winter. In summer he didn’t wear a coat, and swapped out his woollen beanie for an army green cap. He carefully rolled up the little blue towel, stuck it under his arm and started his goodbyes. Shook hands with the gents and kissed the ladies goodbye. Which, given Bent’s fondness for his flock (or “harem” as Lea liked to call it) could take quite some time.
He said his parting adieu and looked up towards the entrance gate, making quite sure the coast was clear. It had been a near miss earlier. Bent made a mental note to get the first round of drinks in tonight to thank Lea – even though it always pained him to bring his wallet out in full view – she really was a star. Her quick thinking had saved him, once again, from the clutches of Holy Helle. Why does that darn woman have to act like a sergeant major? I’ve used this towel for twenty years and never had any complaints! And I said I’d fix the door.
He neared the clubhouse gate. There’s no need to be running around after me every five minutes with a big stick. For Pete’s sake, we’re all working as volunteers. Would serve Mrs Bloody High and Mighty right if she got stuck in there herself! Bent laughed to himself at the image of Holy Helle stuck behind bars, rattling them to get out. Bent sighed and took out his bundle of keys. He thought for a second, was about to walk through the gate, then turned back around. Gah!
The image of Holy Helle stuck behind bars had morphed into a new one: Ellen Møller, panting and out of breath, sitting on a damp bench waiting for her breath to return before she tried calling out for help again. Bent felt more than a pang of guilt. He walked slowly back towards the bathing bridge, the
n round the back of the sauna towards the storage hut. The old toolbox should still be in there. No-one else ever touched it. Except Ole. When it was last used was anyone’s guess.
There was a sound behind him and he stopped to look over his shoulder. But there was no-one there. The only eyes watching him were the seagulls, sitting in a row on the wooden railing and even they looked bored this morning. All puffed up and trying their best to keep warm. He turned back around and started turning over the keys with his weather-beaten fingers. Here was the key he needed.
CHAPTER 7
Strandvig had a comfortable feel about it. It was undoubtedly sleepy but certainly not ‘lived in’. There was definitely more emphasis on chic than shabby. Which was mainly due to its geographical position in the Whisky Belt: the area north of Copenhagen where the residents can, despite the best efforts of the Danish income tax authorities, still afford to drink the stuff. If you walked down Strandvig’s main street, you had a good chance of meeting someone you knew. “Or run the risk of meeting!” as crotchety old Bertil Bruun, the bicycle dealer, always took great delight in pointing out.
There were all the usual chainstores you’d expect to find in a small Danish town. Matas, the drugstore. Fætter BR, the toy shop. Bog og Idé, the bookseller. One fairly pricey, ergo fairly well assorted supermarket, Irma. One fairly cheap, ergo basic supermarket, Netto. Plus, a decent array of locally-owned clothes and speciality food stores.
Despite years of restructuring (read: cutbacks) to the national train network, Strandvig could still boast a local station with two departures every hour (on the very civilised, hour and half hour) to the Danish capital, Copenhagen, just twenty minutes away. But, even with the big city within easy striking distance, the Strandvigere (the local natives) were faithful to their village and supported their local stores. Without the baker, butcher and bike shop, Strandvig as they knew it would die out and end like all the other ghost towns in the outskirts of Denmark. The local community was strong. They all pulled together. “And bathed naked together!” as Bent Bang always took great delight in pointing out.
Bang in the middle of Strandvig high street was “Brdr. Frandsen”. Frandsen Brothers was one of those shops you often find in small towns. Part gift shop, part purveyor of soft furnishings, candles and decorative items. Though the atmosphere ‘chez Frandsen’ was bijou rather than provincial homely. And the gifts were very definitely ‘fine’ as opposed to those in the pocket money category. The Frandsen Brothers provided service with a knowing smile. All purchases were stylishly and lovingly wrapped by Kenneth, while Henrik brought you up to date with all the local gossip.
To be perfectly frank, the name hanging from the wrought ironwork sign was misleading. Kenneth Frandsen and Henrik weren’t blood brothers. Or brothers of any kind at all. But the kitsch couple had been living together for so many years, and were such an integral part of life in Strandvig, that their nickname had stuck. Indeed, most Strandvigere couldn’t remember Henrik’s real surname. Henrik seemed to have completely forgotten it himself. It was happily tucked away somewhere at the very back of his memory. Very conveniently right along with his birth certificate, which was happily tucked away somewhere at the very back of a very deep drawer that was very permanently locked shut.
At 9.45 am precisely, Kenneth Frandsen unlocked the front door of the shop. He looked out into the street. It was just starting to get busy again at this time of the morning. Rush hour was an hour and a half ago, and the clothes and speciality stores opened their doors at 10 am. Only the supermarkets opened earlier. He called out a cheery ‘godmorgen!’ to Jacob, one of their regular customers, who was whizzing past on a bike. Kenneth breathed in and shivered – another icy morning – but beautifully sunny. Something to add to his happiness journal tonight! He hated the long, dark Danish winter days. They put him into a long, downward spin and made him yearn to climb further into his shell. December was a fairly easy month to get through, with a constant daily focus on the hygge of Christmas and the hustle and bustle in the shop. But January could be grey, foggy, cold and damp. He revelled in the current weather of snow and ice. As much as he despised the cold, the snow made everything white and bright. Yes, I am a child of light! Kenneth took a deep inward breath and turned his face upwards, in an attempt to soak up every single ray of sunshine.
He continued to hold the door open with his foot and smiled approvingly, while Henrik carried out a couple of large grey wicker baskets and placed them on each side of the small, but perfectly (mis)formed, rustic wooden bench outside the shop. Kenneth released his foot and followed suit, scurrying out with deerskins in hand. He ceremoniously placed them on the bench and finished his rather grandiose tableau by lighting candles in several enormous black metal French lanterns with a long stainless steel candle lighter. Voilà! My job here is done! Så hyggelig!
Meanwhile, Henrik, his better (and very much larger) half, was back inside the warmth of the shop, lighting fragranced candles, which were dotted around the displays and in the windows. His last task before opening was watering succulents. Frandsen Brothers didn’t sell flowers as such, but there was constant demand for their array of small plants, which were just the right size to sit on a narrow window ledge or on a bathroom shelf. And both brothers enjoyed seeing the pale green foliage – it made for a soothing background in the shop. Right along with the soft tones emanating from the shop sound system. Henrik and Kenneth alternated between two CDs – the Best of Classical Music and the Best of Lisa Nilsson. Henrik and Kenneth weren’t true pop or jazz fans but their favourite diva sung in Swedish, and that made it much more palatable. And rather classy.
The gleaming steel Italian coffee machine gurgled happily in the background. Henrik’s eyes flashed to the Georg Jensen clock on the wall: a couple of minutes before 10 am and they were ready. Just like clockwork. Henrik reached for a huge glass mason jar that was on the right of the till, popped the lid open and gazed inside: Kongen af Danmark. Ruby red lozenges which, if you believed the story (and Henrik saw no reason not to) had been eaten by Danes since the seventeenth century, taking their name from King Christian the Fifth. Henrik wasn’t a huge history buff but, having a keen eye for detail and a sharp memory for the unusual, remembered that one of Christian’s favourite pastimes, according to the King’s own memoirs, was love-making. Hunting, maritime affairs and war weren’t quite so noteworthy, going with the turf.
According to legend, King Christian – when not busy wooing – suffered from a sore throat. But despised the cure of the period: aniseed oil. The King’s physician, not to be outdone, came up with the bright idea of mixing the bitter tasting oil with a sugar mass in order to mask the taste. King Christian enjoyed the resulting product and, voilà, Denmark’s favourite cough drop was born. King Christian was cured. But died after a hunting accident in 1699, at the age of fifty-three, having fathered eight children with his wife and six with his mistress.
Fifty-three. Henrik winced. He returned his gaze to the mason jar in front of him then slowly and deeply inhaled – letting the bitter aniseed aroma reach his nostrils – then daintily put in his chubby forefinger and thumb, selected a red jewel, taking great care not to touch the others, slowly extracted it from the mason jar, looked at the crown stamped on the sweet, then ceremoniously popped the boiled sweet into his mouth. Gud bevare Danmark! God bless Denmark! The observant bystander would also spot that Henrik’s eyes briefly flashed over to the opposite wall, where ‘Daisy’, the current reigning Danish monarch, Margrethe the Second, sat very majestically in a beautiful silver frame, looking down with pride upon the shop floor. Henrik pondered whether Daisy ever enjoyed a King of Denmark?
Kenneth took small, noiseless sips of his espresso and sat down at the counter with his phone. He peered through his reading glasses and checked his messages, muttering out loud with the occasional “aha” or “hmm”. The last message gave him pause for thought. He sat motionless and shifted his eyes to the side, trying to determine whether Henrik was behind him. K
enneth read the message twice, saving it word by word to his internal memory, then pressed ‘delete’. He switched off his phone and placed it without a sound on the shelf underneath the counter.
He lifted up his cup, not realising that he had already drained the last of the espresso, but he completed the action anyway. Then replaced the cup on the saucer, making a little too much noise and disturbing the stillness in the shop. He cleared his through and coughed. “Um, Henrik?”
“Yes, skat?”
“How about eating up at Strandhøj tonight?”
“Of course, skat, whatever makes you happy!” Henrik, still sucking the sweet, had started to fluff up the sheepskin cushions that were stacked together in neat piles on top of a black lacquered bench. “Any particular reason?”
Kenneth swallowed hard, “Um, no, Henrik. No particular reason…”
Henrik turned away and started refolding a pile of Klippan lambswool rugs. Then suddenly stopped and pointed an accusing, chubby finger at Kenneth. “Wait a minute... I know what you’re up to!”
Kenneth felt a shiver running down his back. And this time it had nothing to do with the sub-zero temperature outside.
“It’s Thursday, right? Little Friday! Ok, hold on a minute…” Henrik picked up a pile of glossy magazines from the top of a set of antique, French nesting tables and looked underneath for the local paper, ‘Kystbladet’. It was a large, broadsheet-style newspaper but only a few pages long. Too thin, as if the second, third and fourth sections of the newspaper had somehow been lost along the way. Kystbladet reported the news from the towns up and down the coast but, as there really wasn’t much local news to report, it was mainly filled with adverts, ‘offers of the week’ from Strandvig’s two competing supermarkets and the ubiquitous (and, all too often, self-written, glowing) portraits of local citizens turning 60, 70, 80 or 90. Or celebrating 25 years working at the local bank. Plus the mandatory weekly death notice. Henrik spread Kystbladet out on the counter and opened it at page 3, his very favourite page. The ‘Where 2 Eat’ section. Though Henrik still referred to it as the “Dining Out” page, not in the least impressed by the snazzy name change made when two local schoolchildren had spent a week’s work experience at the newspaper offices last spring. Henrik liked kids but had an aversion to kidz.
Death Comes to Strandvig Page 3