“Oh, Lea Mus, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you. Ole and Yrsa Olsen were here at 6.45 am to open up. They were on their way down the bathing steps when Yrsa spotted a body – a man – floating in the water.”
“Oh my God!”
“They tried to drag him back up on to the bridge and Yrsa called an ambulance.”
“How awful! Is he going to be alright?”
Bent looked away, tears in his eyes. “There was nothing they could do for him, sweetheart. Apparently he’d been in the water for hours…”
Lea felt sick. “Bent…is he dead then?”
“Yes. It’s just – it’s just I just can’t understand it.”
“Bent, who is it? Please, tell me.”
Bent took Lea’s gloved hands in his and looked up at her with a weary look. “I’m so sorry, Lea Mus. It was Stig.”
CHAPTER 25
Bent trudged off to the storage hut, head down against the snow, yellow beanie in hand. He couldn’t fully see where he was going, because the snowflakes were coming in at full speed sideways, but he knew the layout of the bathing club so well that he could walk it in his sleep. The door would be difficult to open, of course, but he was looking forward to taking out his aggression on the defenceless piece of timber. He was angry at Stig. And what about poor Karin? Who was going to tell her?
He pulled and pushed on the handle with his small, gloved hands and kicked and cursed. He stood back to take a deep breath, blow the snowflakes off his nose and started the punishment again. He was almost disappointed when the door finally gave way, but his body was getting tired. The stale, warm scent inside caught him off guard – it was as if someone had popped open the doors of his mind – and he collapsed into a heap on one of the old wooden benches and began to sob quietly.
Den dumme skid! That bloody idiot! Hva’ fanden lavede han! What the hell was he doing?
All the memories of young Stig came flooding back. The mop-haired youngster who lived for his football. The troubled teen who had managed to get back on track. Bent watched him grow up and make his own way in life. Okay, maybe not the way his parents had expected or wanted. But Stig was a credit to the village. One of the good guys. And now he goes and tops himself? Why, oh why..? Still the sobs came and Bent sat motionless, tears streaming down his face and running off his chin.
He was just taking a deep breath when he heard footsteps approaching on the boards outside. Bent sat up, quickly rubbing his eyes with his hat. A second later the door was thrown open and the light – a single bulb hanging under a 1970s rattan lampshade – was switched on. It was Holy Helle. Her silhouette was unmistakable.
“Mr Bang?!”
“Yes, Ma’am!” Bent jumped to his feet and rubbed his eyes again with his hat. Which by now was decidedly damp.
“What on earth do you think you are doing in here?”
Bent dived behind a set of dust covered shelves. “Erm, I was just fetching a bottle of Gammel Dansk, Ma’am! I think there’s one on the back shelf here somewhere.”
If Bent had been looking in the other direction, he would have seen that Helle was sporting her ‘thoroughly displeased’ look. But he didn’t need to see her, he could hear it in the way she said “Mr Bang.”
“Mr Bang. Don’t you think there has been quite enough Gammel Dansk drunk around here for one day?”
Bent popped his little head around the shelf. “Oh, it’s not for me, Ma’am.”
Holy Helle didn’t look convinced.
Bent coughed and carried on, regardless. “Yrsa – Mrs Olsen – has had a right shock. I thought she might be in need of a little dram to steady her nerves—”
Holy Helle preened herself slightly. “Really? Hmm, perhaps you’re right. But I can inform you that she and Mr Olsen left a couple of minutes ago, so you can stop doing whatever you are doing in there and come on out. Do I make myself clear?”
CHAPTER 26
When the swimming club reopened for business the next morning, Helle Brandt was the first Viking on the scene. According to the roster, it was officially Ole and Yrsa who should do the honours. But yesterday morning Helle had decided that she herself would take on the task of opening the secondary lock of the main gate, given the extraordinary circumstances. And they certainly were most extraordinary. There was no contingency in the Viking Club Members Rule Book for the discovery of bodies – floating, dead or otherwise – on club premises. Something, Helle pondered, that should be brought to the attention of the Viking Club Committee at their next meeting. No, scratch that – it was a matter that should be dealt with at the very earliest opportunity. Extraordinary circumstances necessitated an Extraordinary Committee Meeting. Yes, she would fire off a missive this morning. Just as soon as her current duties here at the club were fulfilled.
Yesterday’s events had obviously been very distressing for them all. Helle had been slightly caught off guard by the occurrence of such an unseemly episode on her turf, but had bounced back with renewed vigour (“stand firm in the faith, act like men, be strong”!) and was primed, ready to take the helm, sailing steady with her iron fist. Or her calf leather-gloved fist. Ole and Yrsa, who had been smack bang in the thick of yesterday’s action (and, rather sadly for Ole, very much ‘hands on’) were justifiably shell-shocked and clearly required a few quiet days at home, with nothing more stimulating to pass the time than a pleasant rubber or two of Bridge with their neighbours, Gorm and Karen, or an afternoon eating pancakes with their grandchildren. Though both were avid fans of Inspector Morse, Midsomer Murders and Miss Marple (“Jane really would make for an excellent winter bathing companion”), watching endless repeats of those shows was certainly not going to be on the cards any time soon. The remainder of the Vikings – the Oldies, the not quite so old and the not quite so young – were in a state of shock, coupled with disbelief and grief. Many of them had known Stig since he was a nipper. Most of Strandvig drank up at the Kro, so Stig had been one of ‘them’.
Helle mused on the weekend that lay ahead. Bent Bang had been most insistent – really quite verbal – that he would open today, but Helle had held fast and overruled him. She would open, today, Saturday, if Bent could take Sunday. After all, Mr Bang wasn’t very likely to be rushing off to church, was he? Helle unlocked the metal gate twice, waltzed through the entrance with a swish of her fur coat and said a silent prayer for him. Dear Lord, please do what you can for Bent Bang – I know he is rather a lost cause but surely, if anyone can, you can? Help show him the way and bring him back to the flock. “For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”! Amen!
Helle headed straight for the bathing steps and tugged several times on the long length of beige polypropylene rope that was tied to the top rung. Yes, it was still secure. She lifted up the club’s air thermometer, which was also attached to the bridge by a piece of string, rubbed off the frost with the tip of one of her calf leather gloves, lifted it up to her nose and peered inquisitively at the numbers. Minus 3c. She pulled up a second thermometer from the water. 0c. She lowered it slowly back into the water.
Helle’s next port of call was the alcove between the ladies and gents changing huts. Next to the noticeboard was a little wooden cabinet, secured with a solid brass hook latch. This was the official residence of the Viking Club diary. Not a regular diary with days, weeks and months and the ubiquitous budget and name/address pages at the back that no-one ever used. It was an A4-size hardbacked, lined notebook. But so much more than a simple notebook: it was a testament. An intricate list of dates, times, temperatures and conditions. The men and women of the Vikings recorded their daily presence – their daily communion with the sea. An inward battle of mind over matter and a physical battle of body against time and tide. Helle fished out a pen from the back corner of the cupboard and opened the diary. Though not centuries old (Helle saw to it that a new book was ceremoniously unveiled every year on the first of January at the Vikings New Year’s Dip), it had the appearance of a journal that had been through the w
ars. All the pages were curling up at the edges and had turned from their original white to a pale shade of brown due to their close encounter with wet fingers, strong sunshine and damp sea fog.
She took off her right glove (the wind-chill was -15°C / 5°F today, so prudence was advisable) and started writing. Today’s date, her name followed by the letters FVI (First Viking In), then the water and air temperatures. But there was something odd in the line above. Yesterday’s entry: Friday. There was no mention of LVO.
The LVO (Last Viking Out – responsible for checking the premises before locking up) yesterday was Mr Bang, she was sure of that. But he had omitted to write his name in the club diary. She looked at the entry again. FVI, Yrsa and Bent Olsen. Of course – they had opened the club. And her own name, of course. The others on the bridge yesterday morning had evidently been distracted from registering their presence in the diary by the unexpected appearance and ensuing removal of dearly-departed Mr Rasmussen from club premises.
Stig Rasmussen. She pondered whether she should write in Mr Rasmussen’s name, post factum. Or should that be post mortem? No, no, that wouldn’t do at all. The man wasn’t a Viking. He wasn’t even an invited guest.
But Bent Bang was a member of the Committee. He of all people should adhere to Viking rules. Dear Lord, is there anything that man can do right? Stand firm, Helle, stand firm!
She replaced the diary and pen, locked the cabinet and moved on to the next task, unlocking the door to the sauna. Helle stamped her feet on the mat, pulled the wooden door towards her and peaked around inside. Well, thank goodness for small mercies. Nothing untoward in there this morning, no abandoned towels or bathing robes. Evidently her last missive on the subject had finally stopped that foul practice. She flicked the sauna switch to ‘On’ and set the timer. Fifteen to twenty minutes later the temperature should have reached its peak. It was time to open the gents and ladies huts and get the heat going inside there too.
Two minutes later Helle was in the middle of her disrobing ritual. Though there weren’t any set places for members – claiming a space as ‘your own’ was another of those foul practices that was severely frowned upon – she enjoyed undressing in the little nook at the back. Not only was it right beside the radiator, there were extra hooks (very useful for hanging floor-length fur coats, fur headbands and long pashmina scarves). This was her guilty pleasure and one of the benefits of being the FVI (First Viking In – responsible for opening the club). The floor of the changing hut was wooden and cold, so she stood on a small mat while she undressed. After use the mat could be neatly rolled up, ready to be stored on the top shelf of the hut.
There were voices outside, accompanied by the sound of blowing noses and a hacking cough – some of the Oldies had arrived. Helle quickly pulled on her thick terry towelling dressing gown and put her gold watch into the bottom of her handbag, along with her set of club keys. If she hurried, she could be naked solely before the eyes of her God and not before the eyes of the club members. Not that Helle was ashamed of her body, she took great care of it. She took a deep breath and opened the door. My body is a temple!
She strutted across the boards like a peacock, head high, and focused her thoughts very carefully on recent events. The icy wind was doing its level best to attack her ‘temple’, but it hadn’t reckoned on Helle’s iron will. Mind was very definitely winning over matter. She reached the top of the bathing steps and looked down. Mr Rasmussen’s demise was, naturally, distressing for the whole town. And their current Minister, Anita Bach Larsen, would, naturally, conduct a fitting memorial ceremony. The Minister was young so, naturally, Helle reasoned, Anita would no doubt be more than happy to have someone with long experience and personal knowledge of the community to assist with finding suitable hymns. Yes, Helle would ring the organist after her dip and set up a meeting. No, scratch that – she would ring the organist right after she called the Extraordinary Meeting of the Viking Committee.
But, really, thought Helle, as she carefully removed her robe, folded it in half and placed it in the wire basket. That man – God Rest His Troubled Soul! – had displayed a serious lack of consideration for his fellow bathers by choosing the Viking bathing bridge to end his days. Weren’t there a plethora of other bridges up and down the coast from which to choose?
Helle descended the steps in her rubber bathing shoes and said a little prayer. Oh! And that bottle of Gammel Dansk? Was the man stark raving mad? Well, really, it was either that or a complete disregard for the safety of others. Club rules – sent to every member and a copy of which was clearly visible on the noticeboard – clearly and categorically stated that only plastic bottles were allowed on the bridge. Unless there was special dispensation, as was given for the Moonlight Bathe, for example. Ah, yes, the Moonlight Bathe. She must get the final numbers. Time and tide waited for no man, as Mr Rasmussen had discovered.
CHAPTER 27
Karin called in at Netto, the discount supermarket, on her way home. She hadn’t really eaten since hearing about Stig from the police, but she knew that she should force herself. She picked up a loaf of ready-sliced rye bread, a tub of prawn salad, a wedge of Brie and a punnet of cherry tomatoes. Her plan was to eat in front of the TV (something she never did), watch some reality TV (something she often did) and enjoy a beer (something she sometimes did with Stig). Followed by a long shower and then bed. Sleep would be good, if only her mind would stop racing.
She was surprised and slightly alarmed to find Johnny waiting outside her flat. She was even more surprised to see him looking freshly washed and holding out a bunch of flowers. Recently picked from the petrol station forecourt. She got off her bike and pushed it slowly up to the entrance, desperately wondering what to say.
Johnny stubbed out his Prince and threw it in the gutter. “Hi, beautiful! These are for you. You know, what with Stig and that—”
“Oh!” Karin locked her bike and desperately wondered how to react. “Um, thanks, they’re – err – they’re really lovely.” She stood at the main doorway and hesitated with the key and her bag of shopping. Given the sub-zero temperature, it would seem rude not to invite Johnny up to her flat but, on the other hand, she wanted to be alone. She was desperate to get on the other side of the heavy wooden door as fast as possible. “That’s really sweet of you, Johnny. I’d invite you in but—”
“Oh, no worries, beautiful.” Johnny lit up another cigarette. “But I was thinking that maybe we could have a drink sometime?”
Karin’s throat went dry. “A drink?”
He exhaled. “Yeah, up at Strandhøj. Be just like old times. Stig wouldn’t want you to get lonely now, would he?”
Karin felt the tears coming. Her whole body ached and the only thing on her mind right now was a long shower. “No, I suppose he wouldn’t.”
“You can count on me, Karin. So, when you’re ready, just come to Strandhøj—”
“Oh, Johnny, that’s really kind. Really, it is. It’s just that I’m really not in the mood right now.”
“Well, if you change your mind,” he moved a step closer, “you know where to find me. Or, you know, if anything needs fixing at Æblegården. I’m your man. Always keen to lend a hand!”
She put the flowers on top of her shopping bag and fumbled with the door key. “Oh, yes, right. Well thanks, Johnny. But, no, really, I’m okay. Thanks for these,” she lifted up the flowers. “I’ll see you at the funeral.” She turned her key in the lock when she heard Johnny speak again, but this time not to her.
“What are you doing here?”
Karin turned and saw Mads locking his car door, smiling.
“Same as you are, no doubt, Johnny.” Mads rubbed his hands together and turned up the collar of his coat, “Are you doing okay, Karin?”
“Yes, I’m okay.” Now she was stuck. To go in or not to go in?
“Nice flowers.”
“Erm, yes, Johnny brought them.” She nodded in his direction, “He’s been very kind.”
“I just want
ed to let you know that if you need anything—”
Johnny interrupted. “Yes, I was telling her the same. Can’t have her sitting around moping, can we now.”
Mads looked at Karin. “Okay, we’ll give you some peace. Take care of yourself?”
Lea sighed. “Yes, okay, thanks Mads. And thanks again for the flowers, Johnny.”
The main door was on a spring but, once inside, Karin very quietly pushed it until it locked with a click. She closed her eyes and put her head against the door.
CHAPTER 28
Helle was – like any other upstanding and God fearing citizen of Strandvig – all for law and order. But she really would have preferred the relevant authorities to be a little more discrete and not proclaim their presence to the whole town with the aid of the flashing light of a squad car. Helle shuddered. Just think of the publicity!
Today’s windchill was five below zero and, thanks to gusting glacial winds, the red and white police tape was furiously trying to resist being stretched across the wooden deck. Behind it, a lone technician was slowly setting up and suiting up. Oh dear, oh dear, and we have the Moonlight Bathe next week! We really must move on!
She walked up to the Incident Commander, who had his back turned to her. “Such a dreadful business, Commander,” shouted Helle, against the wind, “and here, at the Vikings, of all places! The Incident Commander – a tall, dark, rugged type in his late 40s – switched off his phone and turned around. He slowly ran his hand through his rather long, thick brown hair and swept it away from his face. “Good morning, Mrs Brandt! The very person I wanted to talk to.” “Well, yes, Commander,” she replied, preening herself, “I am the Chairman of the Vikings.” “I’ll need a full list of your members, Mrs Brandt. And anyone else with key access to the club. Council staff perhaps? Tradesmen or the like?”
Death Comes to Strandvig Page 8