Death Comes to Strandvig

by Diane Hansen-Ingram

  Helle, momentarily caught off guard by a rather exclusive, musky scent, quickly regained her composure. She looked up at him – despite being a woman of large stature, the Commander towered over her.

  “Why, no, Commander. We run a very tight ship here. Tradesmen are only allowed on to the bridge when accompanied by a member of the Committee. The only people who have keys are our club members. But surely,” she said, placing her hand on her ample bosom, “you cannot suspect involvement from anyone in our club? I’ve had the honour of leading this club for three years and I can assure you, Commander, that we Vikings have a strict – a very strict – code of conduct.”

  “Mrs Brandt. Helle—” said the Commander, speaking slowly now and fixing her with his dark, steel-blue eyes, “May I call you Helle?” Helle, suddenly confused by a rather odd feeling in her knees, only managed to nod. “Wonderful. Well, Helle, I’m sure you appreciate that we’d like to eliminate your club members from our enquiries as soon as possible. So I’m going to require your full co-operation. And, please, do call me Daniel.”

  “Um, yes, yes, of course, Command–, um, Daniel!” she squeaked, leaning back on the railing for support, “I shall phone Mrs Lund, our club secretary, immediately.”

  It was at this point that Helle Brandt seemed to zoom out for a moment, and it was only thanks to a ginormous wave crashing against the bathing bridge and splashing her furry headband that she awoke from her divine reverie. The shouts in the background were not those of Heathcliff or Mr Darcy, but coming from the white-suited police technician on the other side of the red and white tape. He was huddled over a toolbox inside the storage hut and signalling to Commander Bro. The technician took his tongs, carefully extracted a hammer and deposited it into a plastic bag. Helle – in the absence of a dose of smelling salts and a maid running off to fetch the village doctor – readily accepted the offer to steady herself on Commander Bro’s solid arm.

  “The toolbox, Daniel?” she simpered. “Why, it belongs to Mr Bang!”

  CHAPTER 29

  Bent sat on the chair and waited. He looked more like a small child rather than a septuagenarian, as he was small of stature and his short legs dangled rather than touched the floor. Daniel came in with a wad of papers under his arm and two plastic cups of coffee. He held one out to Bent. “Milk or sugar, Mr Bang?”

  Bent reached out. “Neither, Commander. I like my coffee like I like my women. Strong and steamy!”

  Daniel didn’t comment – though there was definitely a slight flickering of his eyelids – but simply said, “Please, call me Daniel. Can I call you Bent?”

  “You can call me whatever you like, Daniel. Just don’t call me long distance, ha ha!”

  Daniel forced a small smile and continued. “So, Bent, you know why we asked you to come in today—”

  Bent sat upright in his chair. “Yes, I do! Holy Helle has landed me right in it!”

  “Holy Helle? Mrs Brandt, you mean?”

  “Yes, Mrs Brandt. Oh yes, she acts all ‘holier than thou’. Always doing ‘good works’, and spends every free minute in the church. But she’s just a big bossy boots and wants to interfere in everything.”

  Daniel could immediately see the image in his head – it all tied in very well with the Chairman of the Vikings Club he had met – but chose to ignore Bent’s remark and tried to push on with the interview.

  “We’re just trying to establish a timeline. As you know, Stig Rasmussen seems to have fallen into the water after drinking half a bottle of Gammel Dansk.”

  “So you think it was an accident?”

  “At this stage, Mr Bang, we’re just trying to establish the facts.”

  “Then why did you take the toolbox? I heard you were at the Vikings yesterday.”

  “We did remove a toolbox from the storage hut yesterday—”

  “I know. And I’m sure Holy Helle was delighted to identify it as mine!”

  “Yes, she did identify it, Bent. We removed several items yesterday – including the toolbox. But that’s just normal procedure in a situation like this where we’re looking at a drowning accident or a possible suicide. All I want to do today is to ask you a few questions. Now, if we can just—”

  “I’ve got nothing to hide, Daniel! Ask away… Lord only knows we all want this horrible business cleared up. Stig was a good friend, you know.” He looked up at Daniel, suddenly changed. “Ole, one of us Oldies, who found Stig—”

  “Ole Olsen…” Daniel looked down his list, “and his wife, Yrsa.”

  “Well, it’s like this, Daniel.” Bent paused and scratched his chin, unsure of how to go on. “Ole didn’t want to say anything to Yrsa – it was a big shock for her you know, finding a body in the water like that. She’s a real trooper, Yrsa. But, still,” Bent shook his head, “it’s not the kind of thing the ladies should ever see.”

  “No, of course not.” Daniel nodded and waited for Bent to continue. Often the best information, not to mention the truth, came from letting people talk at random, at their own pace. Not from a question and answer session.

  Bent leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “Well, Ole told me last night that when he pulled Stig out of the water that morning, his head was all bashed in.”

  Daniel looked down again at the pile of papers in front of him. “Mr Rasmussen’s body was pulled out of the water on Friday morning and we’re still awaiting the final autopsy reports. Right now we’re trying to piece together what happened on Thursday night or the early hours of Friday morning.”

  Bent leaned back and watched Daniel closely. “I’ve seen what the water and rocks are capable of, Daniel. So has Ole. I’d put my life in that man’s hands. He said it looked like Stig’s head had been bashed in and I believe him. Bashed in on purpose—”

  Daniel put both his elbows on the table. “Bent, you know I can’t possibly comment on that. We’re still awaiting reports from the lab. And it would make my job here a lot easier if you didn’t mention what Ole Olsen said. This is a small village and we don’t want to scare anyone. Do we?”

  Bent pulled back in his seat. “Ole knows what he saw. And that’s why you’re interested in the toolbox, isn’t it?”

  Daniel tried to change tact. “As I said, we’re just trying to find out what happened. Maybe the toolbox is important. Maybe it isn’t.”

  Stalemate.

  “Okay, then, Daniel. Go on, what do you want to know?”

  “Well, what can you tell me about it?”

  Bent looked thoughtful. “There isn’t really anything to tell. That toolbox has been in there since time immemorial, since the Vikings opened.”

  “When was that?”

  “I can’t remember the year. Ask Holy Helle – she’s already making plans for some sort of jubilee.”

  “So it’s been there for some years?”

  “If I remember rightly, it was Ole’s toolbox. Yrsa’s a great one for tidying up and had tried to get rid of it at the Vejloppemarked.”

  Daniel looked confused. “The vejlopp—”

  “We close the High Street on the first Saturday of September. It’s a Strandvig tradition – been doing it for years. Everyone brings along a table or a rug to put down on the pavement. And any old jumble they want to sell. You’d be amazed at the junk that people are prepared to pay good money for. Ha ha, you should see Henrik and Kenneth – it’s one of the highlights of their year!”

  “Henrik and Kenneth, they would be The Frandsen brothers in the High Street?”

  “Yes. All of a twitter they are. Buying up other folks’ old scrap and rusty garden furniture.” Bent took a noisy slurp of his coffee and scratched his head. “Where did I get to? Oh yes, well we sit there the whole day in our garden chairs and make quite a little party out of it.”

  “It all sounds very cosy.”

  “Oh, it is, Daniel, very hyggelig indeed. And Ellen Møller – have you met her yet? The town butcher, lovely woman. Widowed with three sons: Morten, Brian and Jacob. Jacob, the baby, he helps he
r out in the shop—”

  Daniel knew that Bent was beginning to ramble again but, much against his better judgement, he was quite enjoying the story. Not at all like life over in Odense when the nearest he had ever come to hygge was being invited to speak at the Odense Neighbourhood Watch Residents Association’s monthly meeting and being presented with a tin of Danish cookies for his efforts. He had tried to resist accepting the tin – personal gifts weren’t strictly permitted – but as the cookies had been handmade by old Mrs Jarnvig, he hadn’t the heart to turn her down. He had made amends with his conscience by sharing them with the desk officers and rationing himself to enjoying one cookie at a time.

  Bent took another slurp of his coffee which now, in contrast to the ladies of his harem, was cold and murky. “Where was I? Oh, yes. Ellen, she fires up the barbecue and keeps us supplied with sausages, pork chops and potato salad. Aye, it’s a grand day indeed.”

  Daniel’s stomach rumbled. And was inwardly screaming for Danish cookies.

  Footsteps passed by in the corridor and Daniel flinched. He sat up in his chair and shuffled his papers. “So…the toolbox, Bent?”

  “The toolbox? Oh, no-one wanted the toolbox, did they? And then Yrsa had the bright idea of leaving it at the Vikings. There are always little odd jobs to be done. Tap washers that need changing. New nails for the boards.”

  Daniel took out his Montblanc pen – a gift from his father when he entered the service – and started to write. “So the toolbox and its contents are Ole’s.”

  “Yes and no. We’ve all added to it over the years. And if we needed to buy anything specific – spare parts and the like – they were bought with money from the Vikings’ kitty.”

  Daniel stopped writing. “There’s cash kept at the Vikings?”

  “Oh no, no cash these days, Daniel. We did have a jar but that was years ago, in the very early days of the club. Trouble was, the local boys would break in and use the hut at night – and steal any money that was in the jar. Nothing big – just fifty kroner or so – but we had to stop leaving cash in there. These days it all goes through the club’s bank account. Holy Helle is a mighty pain in the ass, but I’ll say one thing for the woman, she’s as straight as a die when it comes to the accounting. You can ask Ole.”

  Daniel continued writing. “So back to the toolbox. Who has access to it?”

  “Well, anyone with a key to the storage hut.”

  “And who has a key?”

  “All the Committee members.”

  At least that narrows it down. Daniel opened a file. “Yes, Mrs Brandt has already given us the list—”

  Bent continued. “And, of course, there’s the spare key underneath the brick.”

  “The brick?”

  “Yes, under the brick. On the right-hand side of the door. For emergencies. Everyone in the club knows about it.”

  Brilliant, just brilliant. Daniel sighed. “I didn’t see a brick there yesterday, Bent. And we made a full search. So where’s that brick now? And the key?”

  Bent thought about it. “I have no idea, Daniel. Now you mention it, I don’t think the brick was there on Friday morning when I was in the hut.”

  “You went into the hut on Friday? The day Mr Rasmussen’s body was found?”

  “Yes. I was, erm, looking for that old bottle of Gammel Dansk.”

  Daniel watched Bent closely. “You were looking for a bottle of Gammel Dansk?” Mrs Brandt told me she had found an empty bottle on the bathing bridge.

  “Erm, not for me, Daniel. It was for Yrsa. Medicinal, you know. But I didn’t find it. It was maybe the one that Stig—”

  “Did you touch the toolbox?”

  “No, not on Friday. But I’d rummaged around in there on Thursday morning, because Holy Helle had been chasing me to repair the door.”

  “So you were in the hut on Thursday. But there was nothing unusual in the hut on Friday when you entered it. Nothing out of place? Nothing missing?”

  “Nope. Just like it always is, a bit of a mess. Cold and damp and clammy.”

  “Do you smoke, Bent?”

  Bent’s eyes flickered and for a moment he was confused. “Bent? Do you smoke?” Bent was lost in his own thoughts for a second but then seemed to dismiss those thoughts just as quickly. He lifted up the plastic cup, and looked down inside at the cold dregs of coffee. “Me, Daniel? No, sorry, I can’t help you there. Look at me – the very picture of health! Gave that nasty habit up years ago.”

  Daniel decided to let it go. He stood up and shook Bent’s hand. “Thanks for coming in and being so helpful.”

  “Not at all, not at all.” He looked Daniel in the eye. “I think you might just like it here, you know.”

  “The station?”

  “Strandvig.”

  “I’m only here for six months, Bent.”

  Bent rolled up his yellow beanie. “You mark my words. In fact, I bet you 100 kroner that you’re still here for our next Vejloppemarked!”

  Daniel laughed. “I really don’t think so, Bent. Anyway, I’m not a betting man.”

  “No, I can see that. You look like a decent man. A girl could do worse and I know someone who might be right up your street!”

  Daniel clapped Bent’s shoulder as he walked towards the door. There was something incredibly endearing about the little, funny man.

  Daniel snapped back to his senses. “Oh, but Bent!”

  Bent turned around in the doorway. “Yes, Daniel?”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t share what Ole Olsen said to you.”

  Bent put his fingers up to his neck. “Right you are, Daniel. Ama’r halshug.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “Sit down, Kenneth, and let me make you a nice cup of mocha.” Henrik steered his better, smaller half towards their Børge Mogensen black leather sofa and covered his knees with a black and grey geometric print lambswool blanket.

  “But, Henrik, it’s just so awful! I mean, first, poor Stig is dead. And, if that isn’t bad enough, the police think it’s murder? Here, in Strandvig? It just doesn’t make any sense. I mean, really – Stig? God rest his soul!” He buried his head in his hands, ignoring the kransekage Henrik was holding out.

  Henrik lifted the dish to his nose and savoured the smell of marzipan. The dainty pastry logs, drizzled with white icing, were perfectly lined up on the brown, retro stoneware plate.

  “Well, we don’t know that for sure, skat. I only heard it from Ellen. Yrsa was in the butchers this morning buying a few titbits for Ole. Not surprising that he’s lost his appetite since pulling Stig out of the water. And, I mean to say, who can really blame him?”

  “Must have got the shock of his life!” said Kenneth, pulling his knees up underneath the rug and nursing his mocha.

  “This whole business would make anyone lose their appetite,” said Henrik, reaching for a second piece of kransekage. “’A small dish of hot liver pâté and a couple of breaded fish fillets – that should fair give him his strength back,’ Ellen reckoned. Well, Yrsa said the police had been round again. Same questions as before, but they wanted specific details. Had they noticed anything strange when they opened the club on Friday? Was the padlock still on the main gate? Any blood or hair on the steps… The police said Stig had a lot of gashes on the back of his head.”

  “Well, of course, he did,” Kenneth argued, “He must have been bashed to bits. Remember what Bent said. Stig had been in the water for hours. And you know yourself what the rocks are like down there—”

  “But, skat,” said Henrik, reaching for his third piece of kransekage and playing his trump card, “from what Ellen could make out, the police seem to think Stig was dead before he entered the water!”

  “Oh my God, so it might be murder then?”

  “Well, it’s certainly looking that way. Imagine that, here in Strandvig. That’ll certainly put us on the map!”

  “Do we want to be on that kind of map?”

  Henrik licked his finger and used it to pick up all
the kransekage crumbs from the plate. “You know what they say, skat. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Well, I suppose so—”

  “On the other hand, that means that there’s a killer amongst us.”

  “Hmm—”

  “Which means that anyone in Stig’s circle is a potential suspect. Yes, the police are going to be looking under every stone. Things are definitely going to heat up around here!”

  Kenneth shivered and pulled the rug right up to his nose.

  CHAPTER 31

  Bent and Lea sat on the bottom bench of the sauna. Normally they would go straight for the top bench and the constant, pulsating heat. But running through the events of the last few days would require a long, slow simmer. Lea recounted the facts as she knew them. The police had questioned Bent after the discovery of the hammer and toolbox, but were content with his testimony and let him go. According to Henrik, who had heard it from Ellen, who had heard it from Mrs Meyer who cleaned the police station, there were prints all over the toolbox, but none on the hammer. It had been mysteriously wiped clean. Possible murder weapon, exhibit A? The police still maintained that they were investigating a fatal accident but the hammer, together with Ole’s suspicions had set the whole town talking.

  Bent had no obvious motive, but did have an ironclad alibi. After waving goodnight to Lea at Strandhøj Kro, he had spent the night with a lady friend. Bent was too much of a gentleman to name names, but Lea knew it was one of the Oldest Swinger in Town’s harem.

  Lea went through the scenario again. “Okay, there was no sign of forced entry and every member of the Vikings has their own key. So, in theory, any one of us could have killed Stig, right?”

  “But the key only opens the gate, sweetheart. The main gate is padlocked every night and unlocked every morning. Committee members are the only ones with the padlock keys.”

  “So who are we looking at, apart from yourself? Ole and Yrsa – they were the ones who discovered Stig, but I think we can safely count them out, can’t we. Then there’s our beloved Chairman—”