by Karin Nordin
Then he turned his attention to Hanna and tried to offer a conciliatory smile. ‘What kind of sandwiches did you make?’
* * *
The forensic team took the better part of the day combing through the barn and the surrounding woods. One of the technicians who made the trek out to the mining site where Kjeld had fallen found a piece of cloth that had torn on a low-hanging spruce branch. When she asked Kjeld for his clothes to take into evidence for comparison she mentioned that he was damn lucky that he’d fallen where he had. Any further up along the ridge and they would have been dealing with two bodies instead of one. He supposed it was meant to be comforting, but Kjeld didn’t feel any more at ease.
Something about the entire situation was wrong. Not the body or the near-death tumble over the mining ledge or his father’s sombre disassociation preceding the discovery, but something that Kjeld wasn’t seeing. It gnawed at him.
‘Can we talk?’
Kjeld looked at Gunnar who had since covered his comb-over with a knit cap pulled down below his ears. Then he followed his old friend into the hallway so their voices wouldn’t travel up the stairs and disturb his father.
Gunnar fidgeted, keeping his gaze lowered so he wouldn’t have to meet Kjeld’s eyes.
Kjeld crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the inevitable. The good old following the course of justice procedure that all police officers learned to say. The kind of phrase that was supposed to insinuate that it had nothing to do with any past history or personal grievances, but more often than not had exactly to do with both of those things. Particularly where Gunnar was concerned.
‘I’ve got to take Stenar in for questioning.’ Gunnar shifted his weight from one foot to another.
‘The hell you are,’ Kjeld said, but it was more a complaint than a threat. He knew the routine. He understood the process. But that didn’t change the fact that Gunnar was a shit excuse for a cop with a years’ long grudge big enough to match the chip on Kjeld’s shoulder. Dead body in his dad’s barn or not, it was hard for Kjeld not to take it personally.
‘Don’t make this hard on me, Kjeld. You know how this is going to go. Everyone is going to get questioned. That doesn’t mean anything.’
‘And how long will it take before questioning becomes an official arrest?’ Kjeld didn’t even try to hide his growing temper.
Gunnar’s cheek twitched and the thick vein on the side of his face bulged out from beneath his cap.
Gunnar took a deep breath.
Kjeld could see by the sudden stiffness in his posture that Gunnar was doing his utmost to keep calm. It was an expression that Kjeld was used to. He’d seen it on the face of his chief more than once, particularly in those moments when Kjeld was about to do something stupid and irrational. Kjeld didn’t think he was being irrational now, however, but his perception might have been biased. He had too much history in Varsund and too much bad blood with its self-appointed chief investigator.
‘I understand there are some personal circumstances that might cause some difficulty in—’
‘He has dementia,’ Kjeld interrupted. He dropped his arms from his chest and took a step forward, forcing Gunnar to lift his gaze and pay attention. Kjeld could tell that Gunnar was doing his best to maintain that “big man” composure like he had in his office, but there wasn’t an imposing desk between them for Gunnar to hide behind now and Kjeld had both height and hair on his old friend. ‘His mind is confused. There’s no way to know if anything he tells you will be truthful. Any statement he gives will be inadmissible in court.’
‘We can have a doctor in the room to make sure your father isn’t overstressed.’
‘You mean coerced?’
Gunnar’s mouth pursed into a thin line and Kjeld realised he was on the edge of going too far.
‘What are you saying?’
‘You know damn well what I’m saying. I don’t trust you, Gunnar.’
Gunnar sneered. ‘That’s quite the predicament, isn’t it?’
Kjeld didn’t respond.
‘You don’t trust me because of what happened in the past. I don’t trust you because of what I read in the papers last week. I see what you’re trying to do out there in the big city. Trying to pretend like you haven’t fucked up. Like you’re untouchable. Except you did fuck up, Kjeld. And I’d be willing to bet there’s some truth to what people are saying.’ Gunnar gritted his teeth. ‘I could ruin you if I wanted to. I could bring the whole thing toppling down.’
‘Not without ruining yourself.’
‘You think anyone cares about a crooked cop in Varsund Kommun? No one even knows where that is. No one who matters.’
‘I know where it is.’
‘And yet the first chance you get, you’ll be on the road back to Gothenburg. As if this place never existed.’ Gunnar poked Kjeld in the shoulder with a gloved finger. ‘You’ve got way more to lose than I do.’
Gunnar was right and Kjeld realised then that the grudge between them was not one-sided. ‘I want an impartial psychiatrist. Someone from out of town.’
‘Fine.’
‘And a lawyer.’
Gunnar scoffed. ‘It’s just questioning, Nygaard. He’s not being charged. You’ll be questioned, too.’
‘Yeah, but I can remember not burying someone in my dad’s backyard.’ Kjeld took another step forward until he was within a few inches of Gunnar. He knew it was pure bravado. He wasn’t going to lose his cool in front of his old college buddy, but Gunnar didn’t know that. ‘My dad called you and told you he witnessed something. You chose not to take it seriously. Don’t forget that.’
Gunnar hesitated, the tenseness practically radiating off his body. Then he relaxed and gave a wry smile. ‘All right, Nygaard. Get your lawyer and your doctor and whoever else it is you think your dad needs to answer a few harmless questions. But I want both of you down at the station before three o’clock on Monday afternoon, regardless of whether you’ve managed to get your people together. And I’m sure I don’t need to insinuate how this will look if you fail to show up. Your father might be innocent of not recalling the past, but I wouldn’t put it past you to tell a few tall tales.’
Gunnar took a step back, bundling up his coat around his neck as he went for the door. Before he left he shot Kjeld a knowing glower. ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, after all.’
Chapter 12
‘Hej! You’ve reached Sara’s voicemail. I’m probably out wrangling kids. Leave me a message!’
Kjeld left an exasperated “call me” after the tone. He checked for any new texts and was surprised to find he had none. Nothing. Not even from Esme. That was a first. But he was more surprised by Sara. He’d called her at least four times since Gunnar left, but as far as Kjeld could tell she was still ignoring him. Albeit rightfully so. He’d been kind of a jerk the last time they spoke.
He crossed the living room to stare out the window into the backyard. The blue and white police tape, lit up by the forensic team’s work lamps, zigzagged across the yard, fluttering every time the wind kicked up through the trees. They’d covered half the barn in a large white sheet, most of which seemed to be an attempt to block the hole in the roof. A special animal unit had to be called in to gather the birds, although that had been an easier task than manoeuvring around the decades of junk that Stenar had piled up in the barn.
The forensic team was still working well past dinnertime, trying to excavate the body, but Kjeld found that he wasn’t much interested in that process. He was too distracted by the overwhelming darkness. In a few more weeks it would be pitch-black before noon and the entire region would be shrouded in almost six months of perpetual night. Just another reason why he lived in Gothenburg. It was far enough to the south to offer a few extra hours of daylight during the winter.
Kjeld watched the crime-scene specialists as they hurried in and out of the barn in their protective clothing. After a while his thoughts began to drift to that half-uncovered grave. He supposed that any norma
l person would have been shocked or dismayed to find a body on their property. Kjeld just felt empty. It wasn’t that he didn’t have sympathy for whatever poor bastard lay buried in the dirt beneath years of bird shit, but it just reinforced how very little he knew his father.
What could have happened?
Kjeld had gotten a good look at his father’s face when they discovered the body. Stenar hadn’t been surprised, but Kjeld didn’t expect that. His father had already admitted that he’d witnessed a murder. But there was something else in his father’s eyes. Defeat? Resolution? Kjeld had left the family home as soon as he was old enough so he couldn’t be certain that he knew how to interpret his father’s expressions. Adding dementia to the matter only made Stenar harder to read. But Kjeld had the nagging sense that there was something more behind his father’s vacant eyes. Sadness? Regret?
Maybe he was just clutching at straws.
A hand on his shoulder tore him from his thoughts.
‘Your dad’s sleeping,’ Hanna said.
‘Thank you.’ Kjeld tried to sound appreciative, but the words fell dead in the air. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a migraine coming on. ‘You didn’t have to stay, you know.’
Hanna grinned. ‘Well, my car is still in the Gruva car park so I kind of did.’
‘Shit.’ Kjeld shook his head. ‘I completely forgot about that.’
‘It’s all right. You had other things to deal with.’
Kjeld turned away from the window and looked at her. She wasn’t wearing any make-up. The natural look added a few years to her face, but it suited her. Without the blush and foundation she reminded him more of the young girl selling raffle tickets at the spring fair. Hanna hadn’t been his first kiss, but when he was a teenager every kiss had been memorable. And Hanna hadn’t insisted on it being anything more than what it was, which might have explained why this one memory of her was fonder than those he had with others he’d gone to school with. It made him wonder how things might have turned out if he’d stayed in Varsund. Would they have grown apart? Remained friends? Become something more? Except it was pointless to imagine. Because Kjeld didn’t stay in Varsund. And he never would have. Not for anyone.
A sharp cackle of ravens outside broke the silence and interrupted his thoughts.
‘I’ll drive you back to your car,’ he said.
‘Are you sure?’ she asked. ‘I don’t have anything going on this weekend. If you want me to stick around and help you with your dad, I can.’
He paused for a moment, staring into her dark eyes and remembering how nice it had been not to wake up alone. He wouldn’t have minded spending another night forgetting that he was a single nearly nonexistent dad approaching forty who spent more time with the dead than he did with the living. It would almost be worth the few hours of denial.
Almost.
‘I’ll get your coat.’
* * *
The drive back from the Gruva took thirty minutes longer than normal after a logging truck pulled out into the road, forcing Kjeld to wait for the loggers to finish loading the eighteen-wheeler’s semi-trailer with recently cut pine before veering off to the side street that led up to his father’s place.
The backyard was still lit up in sporadic corners from the forensic spotlights. Occasionally one of the lights would flicker out because of the cold and a technician would scurry out to their van and thaw the extension cords with a battery-powered hair dryer.
Kjeld followed the low beams of light until they faded out in the snow, dissipating into the shadows formed by the trees. He caught himself staring for an inordinate amount of time at the bend in the yard, where it curved into forest. And although he couldn’t see anything, he had the eerie sense that someone was watching him from behind those trees. He drew the curtains. Out of sight, out of mind.
The inside of the house was uncomfortably quiet.
Kjeld checked on his father who, for the first time since Kjeld had arrived, was resting peacefully. Occasionally he would mumble something in his sleep while the crusty corners of his mouth were wetted with drool. Kjeld imagined that his sister would have wiped that off, but Kjeld was too afraid he would wake his father and send him into a fit that would result in neither of them getting any sleep. After a few minutes he closed the bedroom door, careful not to make too much noise, and turned on a hallway light in case his father decided to wander. The only thing worse than his father falling down the dark stairs in the middle of the night would be Sara screaming at him for his selfish negligence.
He needed to find a lawyer.
Kjeld dialled Sara again. Still no answer.
Kjeld shoved the phone into his back pocket and began the search for his father’s old rolodex.
The house wasn’t that large. Three bedrooms on the second floor. Kitchen, living room, and parlour on the first floor. No office. The living room had been his father’s office back when he was working, but Sara had tidied it up so much that it barely resembled the chaos of Kjeld’s youth. If his parents had kept any important documents or a filing system of professional contacts, Kjeld couldn’t recall where they might have been. Kjeld did remember that there had been a rolodex at one time because he had a clear memory of playing with it when his father wasn’t looking, but his memory didn’t include a hint as to where it would be. Assuming, of course, that it even still existed. If there had been anything useful, like the deed to the property or a phone number to a family lawyer, Sara probably had it sequestered in her house. She’d always been rather anal retentive when it came to keeping track of things. Not like Kjeld. He couldn’t keep a receipt to save his life.
Then he remembered Sara mentioning the boxes in the cellar.
The house didn’t have a full cellar originally, just a small space beneath the kitchen barely large enough for one person to stand, but Kjeld had fragmented memories of his father and grandfather digging it out to make space for storage and his mother’s preserves. Kjeld must have been a toddler back then because the images of that time were blurred and incoherent. The sound of a shovel piercing the ground, the feel of the dirt between his small fingers, his mother’s tired smile as she looked on.
The new set of stairs, which were at least thirty years old by now, had been built into the old pantry that sat off the side of the kitchen. Kjeld reached up and pulled the drawstring on the dangling lightbulb. He winced as a haze of yellow dust illuminated the path downward and descended into the cool basement one step at a time.
The cellar still wasn’t very deep and Kjeld found that he had to hunch over to prevent his head from bumping against the old leaden pipes, added after his parents had a new well installed on the property. The smell of must and damp concrete invaded his nostrils. On one wall sat rows of wooden shelves with neatly stacked boxes, meticulously labelled in Sara’s large handwriting – Dad’s Equipment, Mum’s Needlework, Grandpa’s Tools, Family Photos, Excess Kitchen, and so on for the length of the entire wall, from floor to ceiling. On the bottom shelf, saved from the moist floor by little more than an inch and a piece of plywood, were three boxes that had his name written on them. Kjeld, Kjeld, Kjeld. No other description. The one furthest from the stairs looked like it’d been chewed on by mice.
Kjeld shoved the boxes aside, skimming over the various labels. The further back he searched, the older the boxes became and he wondered what relics of the past might be hiding within them. Some of the labels had smudged over time and Kjeld took a quick look inside the cardboard to see if it held what he was looking for. Old cameras from his grandfather’s bird-watching hobby, videocassettes of Sara’s dance recitals, his father’s high school and college diplomas, and his mother’s collection of vinyl and 8-tracks including a rare American release of Sweetwater’s first album. Kjeld made a mental note to come back later and take that with him.
Behind the box of records, shoved deep into the cellar corner, was a book-sized box marked with his father’s writing. N.M. Miscellaneous, scribbled across the top. Kjeld racked hi
s mind but couldn’t for the life of him think what N.M. might stand for. He pushed aside the box of records and pulled the other box out. The cardboard was soft and warped. The box wasn’t heavy, but something inside clanked when it jostled.
Kjeld tore off the packing tape and stared inside. Papers, plasticised documents, folders, his father’s rolodex – jackpot! – and a metal tackle box. That was odd. He couldn’t recall anyone in his family being keen on fishing. In fact, he had a clear memory of his father giving him a good tongue-lashing after finding out that Kjeld and his grade school friends had gone trout fishing in the river that cut through the northern part of Varsund, separating the town limits from the vast wilderness that stretched towards Norway. His father’s anger hadn’t come from a place of concern for the boys’ safety, however, but out of fear that Kjeld and his friends might have disturbed the natural ecology of the river. Kjeld could remember it clearly. Those had been his father’s exact words. “You might have disturbed the natural ecology of the river.” Because nature had always taken precedence over nurture where his father was concerned.
Kjeld pulled out the tackle box. There was a thick layer of grime on the lid, giving the once silver metal a shoddy blackened hue. Kjeld went to open the box, but was stopped by an old combination lock that had begun to corrode from leaning against the dank cardboard.
He set the tackle box on the ground and ripped open the box containing his grandfather’s tools. Then he dug through the mess of old screwdrivers and wrenches until he found what he was looking for: a rust-covered bolt cutter.
The lock snapped off with very little force, clinking as it hit the ground. Kjeld set the tackle box back up on the shelf so it was closer to eye level and opened the lid. He stared at the inside, disappointed and confused.
Why would anyone lock that up?
Chapter 13
Kjeld sat on the edge of his childhood bed, the rusty tackle box in his lap. He felt like he was losing his mind.