by Karin Nordin
Kjeld sat forward in his chair and removed a small Ziploc bag from his jacket pocket, placing it on top of the desk beside the paperweight.
‘What’s this?’ Gunnar asked, picking up the bag and eyeing the silver-capped tooth inside.
‘I found it in the barn.’
Gunnar stared at him and Kjeld imagined he could see the wheels in his mind turning. Gunnar never did like being proven wrong. It was one of the reasons why he played the role of the big fish in the little pond while Kjeld had worked his way up the ranks in the city. That’s how it had always been with the two of them. Friends because they both had similarly shitty childhoods in the same small town, but when it came to the way they approached their professions they couldn’t have been more different. Gunnar knew that and Kjeld knew that. And although they’d never said it out loud, it hovered there between them like a neglected wound that had begun to fester.
And then there was that falling-out they’d had during their last term at the police academy, but Kjeld liked to think that was all water under the proverbial bridge by now.
Gunnar shrugged. ‘This could be anything. This could be your dad’s.’
‘It’s not,’ Kjeld said.
‘This isn’t enough to prove a murder, Kjeld. You know that.’
‘But it is proof that something happened out there. Something brutal enough to knock out a person’s tooth.’ Kjeld unconsciously raised his voice a few decibels. Not in anger, but sincerity. And while he still wasn’t entirely certain that he accepted his father’s account that he’d witnessed a murder in the barn, he didn’t dismiss the fact that something had happened out there.
‘You’re making assumptions. Someone could have walked into a pole or a beam. Where did you find this tooth anyway? This might be the sticks, but we know how to inspect a potential crime scene. And we searched that place damn good.’ Gunnar’s tone also increased, frustrated.
Kjeld lowered his voice, knowing his response carried more doubt than confirmation. ‘In one of the raven nests.’
Gunnar snorted. ‘Come on, Kjeld. Seriously? Who knows where the hell one of those birds picked that up? That could have come from anywhere.’
‘I don’t believe it did. I know my father isn’t as coherent as he used to be—’
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘But I think it’s enough to open an investigation.’
‘Well, I can’t open a murder investigation on your belief.’ Gunnar pushed the plastic bag with the tooth back across the desk. ‘And even if I wanted to, I’d need more than just a tooth. I’d need a body. Or at the very least someone missing a body. And the only person around here who—’ Gunnar cut himself off.
‘Is someone missing?’
Gunnar’s response took one second longer than it should have. ‘You know how it is out here. Out-of-towners sometimes go out in the woods unprepared. There’s always someone missing in the national park. And …’
‘And?’
‘Well, it’s not exactly a missing person’s case, but the Drunken Bear did disappear a few years back.’
‘The who?’
‘Valle Dahl. The old alkie who used to hang around outside the ICA begging for handouts. You remember. He’s been around since we were kids.’
Kjeld did remember, but he hadn’t thought about the man in years. He’d become something of a joke around Varsund. The kind of person who teenagers liked to tease and mothers shied away from. Kjeld couldn’t recall the man ever doing anything wrong. He was just a staple of the community. The kind of person other people tried not to notice because they were either embarrassed that they didn’t know how to help or ashamed they didn’t try. He was the one person who everyone in town recognised, but no one actually knew. Or so it had always seemed.
‘He just left?’
‘I suppose so. Didn’t notice it myself, if I’m being honest. One day someone just said they hadn’t seen the Drunken Bear in a while and that’s when we all realised he wasn’t around anymore.’
‘And no one thought to look into it?’
‘Like I said, there haven’t been any bodies.’
Kjeld shoved the bag back into his pocket. Then he stood up and made his way towards the door.
Gunnar leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the desk. He looked up at Kjeld with a knowing grin. ‘You know we’re not all just a bunch of dumb hicks out here. We read the news.’
Kjeld stopped and glanced back at his old friend. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘You’re something of a celebrity, you know. Strange how that situation with the Kattegat Killer went down. I’ve read all the news articles on it and I can’t seem to figure out what happened. There seem to be a lot of holes in that investigation,’ Gunnar said, folding his hands together. ‘Almost like he got help from someone on the inside.’
Kjeld narrowed his eyes. He could feel the muscles in his right arm tense, fingers clenching into a fist at his side as though waiting for Gunnar to make a formal accusation. One that could warrant a punch to the face.
But Gunnar just gave a smug smirk and shrugged his shoulders. His thin hair rolled to the side and revealed a small bald patch near the crown of his head. ‘It’s probably just sloppy journalism.’
‘Probably,’ Kjeld said.
‘You gonna drop this?’
Kjeld didn’t hesitate. ‘No.’
‘No body. No evidence. And an unreliable witness. There’s nothing to find here, Nygaard.’
This time it was Kjeld’s turn to grin, a wry curl of his lips to match the sneer in his eyes. ‘Then I guess I’ll just have to talk to the more reliable witness.’
Gunnar’s expression fell. ‘What other witness is that?’
‘The bird,’ Kjeld said. Then he left.
Chapter 6
Kjeld was halfway through the front door from his disappointingly unhelpful trip to the police station when Sara started laying into him. She was still angry with him from the night before. By the time she’d calmed their father down from the fit Kjeld had sent him into and put him to bed it was well past midnight and rather than risk waking up her husband and the kids by coming home in the middle of the night, she decided to sleep over. Now she was curt, exhausted, and told Kjeld in as few words as possible that she was going home. And when Kjeld didn’t jump to his own defence right away she took out her anger on her coat, pulling up the zipper so hard it nearly snapped.
‘You’re doing what?’
‘I’m taking a break for a few days.’
Sara shoved past her brother and stormed out the front door. Kjeld followed.
The temperature had dropped considerably that morning and had only seemed to get worse as the day went on. The frigid air sent a chill through Kjeld’s body. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and watched as Sara continued down the front steps.
‘What does that mean exactly?’ he asked.
‘It means that I’m taking some time for myself. And for my family. I feel like I spend every waking minute here, Kjeld. I’m tired. I need to recover,’ Sara said, shoving the ends of her scarf down the front of her coat. ‘And since you’re sticking around for a few days I don’t see any reason to be here.’
Kjeld continued after her, mentally cursing himself again for not bringing a heavier coat. ‘What about Dad?’
‘You can take care of him,’ Sara replied, crossing the yard to the twisting drive that led away from the house. A thin layer of frost coated the uncut grass.
Kjeld scoffed, a bitter huff of breath that expressed his discomfort better than any honest exchange of words could ever do. She wouldn’t leave him alone with their father. She knew that was a recipe for disaster. ‘You’ve got to be kidding.’
‘Do I look like I’m kidding?’
Sara fumbled with her key. Her car, an early Nineties model Volvo station wagon that had seen more than its fair share of brutal winters, was parked a short distance from the house. The wheel wells were rusty on
both the front and rear panels and there was a layer of mismatched paint on the driver’s side door where someone had tried to cover up a scratch. In the back seat was a mess of sports bags and children’s toys. The interior was frayed, probably where one of her kids had picked at a small gash in the fabric until it turned into a gaping hole, exposing the yellowing cushion underneath. The disarray told Kjeld more about his sister’s state of mind than any of the previous night’s argument and he suddenly felt guilty for taking out his frustration on her.
Sara jiggled the key. Eventually she managed to push it into the lock and unlatch the door.
‘This damn car,’ she muttered, tossing her purse into the passenger seat.
Kjeld caught the door and held it open. ‘Are you serious, Sara? I don’t know a damn thing about taking care of someone with—’
‘With what, Kjeld? Dementia? Yeah, I know. Maybe if you hadn’t run off and ignored us you might have learned a thing or two about it.’ She climbed into the driver’s seat.
‘You know that’s not fair.’
‘Life isn’t fair. Do you think I enjoy coming out here every day? No, of course not. But he’s our dad. That’s what you do. A few days won’t kill you.’
‘That’s not what I mean and you know it,’ Kjeld insisted.
Sara looked up at him, her gaze only slightly apologetic. ‘I’ve left a list of his medications on the kitchen counter. As well as a schedule for keeping him calm. As long as you don’t deviate too much from his normal routine everything should be fine.’
The seatbelt wheezed from overuse as she stretched it across her lap. ‘Oh, and don’t let him go wandering off into the woods by himself. The mine has been expanding into the northern part of the forest. It’s not safe up there.’
Sara tugged on the car door and Kjeld let go to avoid getting his fingers caught. She snorted a laugh as though it were part of a game they’d been playing. A game that had been going on for decades. She turned the key in the ignition and the old Volvo slowly rumbled to life.
‘What if he freaks out like he did last night?’ Kjeld said through the glass. ‘What am I supposed to do then?’
Sara shrugged, putting the clutch in gear. ‘If it’s too much for you, do what anyone would do in an emergency.’
Kjeld stared at her, anticipating her words before she even said them and knowing he deserved far worse.
‘Call the police,’ she said. Then she jerked the car into gear and drove off.
* * *
Kjeld strode back into the house, slamming the door shut behind him.
What was Sara thinking leaving him alone with Dad? Was she just doing it to get back at him? He supposed he couldn’t blame her. Hell, he might have done the same were he in her position. As siblings they’d always been good at holding grudges against each other. Never anything too deliberate, of course. Just the usual annoyance between a brother and sister that led to a minor reprisal later on. Kjeld’s abandonment of the family, however, was more than just a simple aggravation and inconvenience for Sara. His leaving had inadvertently determined both of their futures and Kjeld hadn’t exactly said or done anything to redeem himself since he arrived, unwanted and unannounced. So even though he half expected Sara to show up the next morning having given him a taste of his own medicine, he also realised that this might have transcended their normal level of sibling retaliation.
She very well might have plans to leave him there for days on his own.
‘Sara? Are you home?’ Stenar called out.
Kjeld followed his father’s voice into the living room.
‘Oh,’ Stenar said, looking up from an aviary atlas on Northern European birds. ‘It’s you.’
There was split second where Kjeld thought he saw something more in his father’s eyes. Not simply recollection, but a knowing aggravation he used to harbour whenever Kjeld came home for a visit. A prickling irritation like the one that led to their last argument. The one where they’d both said something unforgivable.
Did his father remember the argument? Kjeld couldn’t tell.
‘Yeah, it’s me,’ Kjeld said, slumping into one of the wing-backed armchairs beside the couch.
Stenar turned the page.
‘What are you reading?’ Kjeld asked.
‘The mating displays of Podiceps cristatus,’ Stenar replied, not looking up from his book.
‘Which one is that?’
‘The great crested grebe.’
Kjeld couldn’t recall what that was.
Stenar interpreted Kjeld’s silence as ignorance. ‘You saw one on that trip to Hässleholm. The one where your sister confused hand lotion with sunscreen.’
Kjeld reached back into his memory, but he was drawing a blank. The irony wasn’t lost on him.
‘It snatched that fish you caught at Store Damm.’
‘Oh! The one with the mohawk?’ Kjeld said.
‘It’s commonly referred to as a crest or a plume.’
‘Looked like a mohawk to me.’
Stenar harrumphed, licking the end of his finger to help him turn the next page.
Kjeld watched his father, silently struggling to reconcile his own memories of the man with the person who sat before him. If he hadn’t been there the previous evening for his dad’s fit he never would have believed that the man was losing his mind. Sitting there on the sofa his father looked as he always did: the consummate researcher whose twigs, flower petals, and precious crows took precedence over his own kin. Seeing Stenar there and knowing that he wasn’t the same man he was when Kjeld was growing up, not mentally at least, infuriated Kjeld. Even more so because he knew that any argument with his father would be futile. Stenar wouldn’t remember it later. And Kjeld would just be frustrated with himself for allowing an old man to control his feelings.
‘How can you remember that?’ Kjeld asked.
‘What do you mean?’ Stenar replied, his attention still focused on the full-colour photographs of the great crested grebe.
Kjeld resisted the urge to raise his voice. ‘How can you remember some random bird we saw on holiday when I was eight but not what happened in the barn?’
Stenar stopped reading. He placed his palm on the glossy page of the book, covering an image of a two-egg nest perched in the high grass on the edge of a lake. After a thoughtful pause he closed the book and looked at Kjeld.
‘It was your sister’s birthday. We were supposed to go up to your uncle’s summer cabin that weekend, but your cousin broke her ankle two days before and they stayed in the city. Your mother suggested we go to the south instead. You complained most of the drive there,’ Stenar said, his expression staunch. Serious. For him the memory was clear as day.
‘And the barn?’
Stenar didn’t answer.
Kjeld leaned forward in the chair. ‘Come on, Dad. You’ve got to remember something. Anything.’
Stenar clenched his fingers around the edge of the atlas until his knuckles turned white. His stare was distant but unwavering, his mind searching for an answer in the murky confusion of his memory.
‘I went out there and had a look around,’ Kjeld continued. ‘I found something.’
‘You did?’ Stenar hesitated.
Kjeld stood up from the chair and sat down on the couch beside his father. He reached into his pocket and removed the plastic bag with the tooth, setting it atop the bird atlas so Stenar could get a better look.
‘I need my glasses.’ Stenar reached over to the side table to grab his bifocal lenses. Then he picked up the plastic bag and held it close to his eyes, scrutinising the silver-capped tooth inside as he would a small fragment of bone or an unfamiliar leaf found in the wilderness.
‘Do you recognise it?’ Kjeld asked.
‘Should I?’
Kjeld sighed. ‘I found it in the rookery. One of the birds was hiding it in its nest.’
‘Which one?’
‘The big ugly one with the hooked beak.’ The one that looked like it would be first in line to pe
ck Kjeld’s eyes out if the opportunity ever arose.
‘Hermod,’ Stenar said.
It took Kjeld a moment to realise that his father was referring to the bird and not to the owner of the tooth. ‘You named a bird Hermod?’
‘No, your mother did.’
Kjeld shook his head in disbelief. ‘That would make that bird more than nineteen years old, Dad.’
‘Thirty-two,’ Stenar insisted. ‘The oldest known living Corvus corax in the wild was twenty-three years and three months, but researchers at the Tower of London have observed captive ravens living well past the age of forty.’
Stenar handed the bag back to Kjeld.
‘Sounds like a cushy life for a bird,’ Kjeld said, shoving the bag and the tooth back into his pocket.
Stenar reopened his avian atlas to the section on the great crested grebe. ‘If you don’t mind giving up the ability to fly.’
‘Come again?’
‘The Tower ravens all have one flight wing clipped to prevent them from flying away should they accidentally get out. They can fly short distances to perch, but if they were ever to get out in the wild they wouldn’t be able to depend on flight for survival.’ Stenar removed his glasses. ‘But they’re treated like royalty. Waited on by servants. Served fresh meat from one of the most expensive butchers in the country. So, I guess it’s a matter of perspective. Would you rather live like a king or be able to fly?’
Kjeld didn’t know how to respond. His father’s clarity both discouraged and frustrated him. He remembered reading once that patients with dementia could often times speak just as coherently as any other person, leading to so many late diagnoses of Alzheimer’s. Apparently, it was easier on the family members to convince themselves that their ageing parent was simply absent-minded than to believe that they were suffering from a debilitating mental disease. But that didn’t lessen Kjeld’s feelings of being stonewalled in his attempts to discover what it was his father saw. Assuming he had seen anything. The only thing that was clear was that Stenar’s passion for birds was one of those topics that solidified him in the moment.
Then again, birds were less complicated than people. And it made Kjeld wonder what his own brain would latch on to when he was old and his memory began to erode. He could only hope it was something as intellectual as ornithological behaviour and lifespans, but with his luck it would probably be the nutritional content of his cat’s preferred brands of cat food or useless trivia picked up from old episodes of Jeopardy.