The Sleeper Lies

by Andrea Mara

  “Yep.”

  “So it’s something about your dad, perhaps something he did before Hanne’s disappearance or during the search or after she was found – maybe at the funeral?”

  “He didn’t go to the funeral,” I said flatly, twisting noodles around my fork.

  “Oh yes, you said that.” She paused. “Isn’t that odd?”

  I put down the fork. “I guess he was so distraught by all of it and he had me to look after . . .”

  “But surely he could have found someone to look after you?”

  “Yeah . . . now that I think about it, I can see how it seems strange. But right from the first time he told me what happened, I knew he didn’t go to the funeral so I just accepted that as normal. I was only twelve when I heard the story.”

  Asta nodded but didn’t look convinced. “Don’t forget, you didn’t hear the full story that time, right? He told you she had gone to Denmark for a visit, not that she had left him. Maybe there are other things he didn’t tell?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not maybe – definitely. I don’t think there was Photoshop in the 1980’s, so if we believe this photo is real and you are sure it is your father, then we know he was here in Denmark, in the church near Fugl Sø at some point. But he never told you this.”

  True. I wondered if anyone else would be able to tell me more – would Alan know something? Or Mrs O’Shea or Bert or Mrs Townsend? I took a sip from my bottle of beer, and made a decision.

  Pulling out my phone, I typed a message to Jamie.

  This is going to sound odd, but can you do me a favour – could you ask your dad if my dad ever went to Denmark around the time Hanne disappeared? Before it happened, or during the search? I thought he wasn’t here, but it seems maybe he was. Just trying to piece things together. Thanks, Marianne x

  The “x” was added and the message sent before I thought too much about it – I wondered briefly if we were at the kisses-in-messages stage but Asta was asking me something.

  “Did Dina say anything else before she freaked out – anything about your mother?”

  “She said she was ill when she came back here – headaches and stomach aches and difficulty sleeping. She said she was liked a trapped bird, but I don’t know what exactly she meant by that.”

  Asta uncrossed her legs and stood up to get two more beers from the fridge.

  “Like the inscription on her headstone maybe?” she said as she sat back down. “Remember – if you love something set it free.”

  “That’s right, I’d forgotten.” Something clicked in my memory. “Asta, do you remember the postcard you transcribed for Fru Hansen – the one Hanne sent to from Ireland. Wasn’t there something about being in a ‘cage’ in that?”

  Asta looked up at the ceiling, her forehead creased in a frown.

  “That sounds familiar but it’s a long time since I saw it. Do you have it with you?”

  I didn’t. Then I remembered something else.

  “I emailed Inspector Nielsen last year with a copy of the letter Hanne wrote my dad – that’ll be in my Sent Items, and I think she said something about being caged there too.”

  It took a few minutes searching two different email accounts on my phone, but I found it.

  “Got it.”

  Asta came and sat by me. I held the phone as we both read the letter.

  Michael,

  I am so sorry to do this to you and to the baby, but I know it is best for you and for her and for me.

  I never meant for any of it to happen. I came to Ireland for all the best reasons but instead I found myself in a cage.

  I can’t live the way I was living. I’m not the person I know. I need to escape from the cage. I’m back where I belong and it won’t be a visit. I need to stay now. I trust that in time you’ll explain this to the child, and I hope you will eventually forgive me. I will understand if you can’t.

  Yours,

  Hanne

  “When I read it first, I thought she meant she just didn’t like the responsibility of being married and having a child. But I wonder . . .”

  I pulled up another number on my phone and hit Call.

  “Dónal Kirwan.”

  “Hey, Dónal, it’s Marianne.”

  “Ah hello, Marianne. Linda’s gone out for a walk – do you want to try her mobile?”

  “No, actually it’s you I wanted to talk to – but how’s she doing?”

  “She’s getting there, though it’ll take time. She told me you two talked last weekend and it seems to have done her good. Everything okay with you?”

  “Yes, I’m just looking into something and you might be able to help. I was wondering, are there ever physical symptoms with postnatal depression?”

  “Well, yes, there can be but Linda didn’t have them – why do you ask?”

  “Could you let me know what they are?”

  “Not everyone gets them, but you can have tiredness all the time, headaches, stomach pain, loss of appetite – the kind of symptoms that are often associated with anxiety. Why?”

  I let out a shaky breath. God, poor Hanne.

  “I can’t be certain, but I think my mother may have had postnatal depression after I was born. She left my dad and me to go back to Denmark, and my grandmother told me she was in bed a lot but not sleeping and had headaches and stomach pain. She also referred to her being a ‘trapped bird’ – I remember Linda told me she felt trapped.”

  “Well, obviously I can’t say with any certainty but it might well have been PND. It was far less understood back then, so she may not have got the support she needed. And lots of people didn’t think it was something to worry about – people were expected to just get on with things. Look, I have to go here – the kids are jumping on beds and I’ve just heard a thump that doesn’t sound good. But give me a shout if you need more information, okay?”

  I said goodbye and sat back, leaning against the couch.

  Asta reached out and touched my hand but said nothing.

  Poor Hanne. What hope did she have in the middle of nowhere, with no support? And my father beside her, with no idea what was going on. It still didn’t explain why he was in Denmark, or why he never told me, or what happened to Hanne. But as I sat, staring at the far wall of Asta’s living room, at a framed photo of a glassy lake, I sensed the answers were close.

  CHAPTER 56

  The following morning, there were three messages waiting for me when I woke in Asta’s spare room. The first was from Jamie.

  Hey there,

  I asked my da, and he took ages to reply – kept asking me why I wanted to know. I think because he knew the request was from you and he’s desperate to figure out if we’re seeing each other.

  I smiled at that, and my stomach did a weird flip.

  He says your dad did go over for a visit, a while after your mam went. He made air quotes when he said ‘visit’ and sniggered. I told him to cop on and just say what he meant. So he told me he suspected your mam was gone for good and your dad was trying to get her back. Only Alan could think that was something to laugh about. Hope that helps, Jamie

  No kiss. Did men do kisses? I had no idea – the only men I messaged were work colleagues, and kisses definitely weren’t a thing in Zorian.

  I typed a reply.

  Cheers for that, would you mind asking one more thing? Could you ask who looked after me while he was gone? It’s a bit weird my dad never said anything about it – I’m curious now.

  His answer came back immediately.

  Will do, Jx

  I grinned at the “x” and, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush, I opened the second message – this one was from Inspector Nielson and was simply a link to a news story. I clicked in, and found a report on the Maja Pederson case – police had arrested a man in his fifties. He was unnamed, but a source close to the family said the man had been dating Maja and they’d broken up shortly before her death.

  One small article that potentially changed everything – if t
here was no link between Maja’s death and those of Hanne and Frederikke. Did that mean there was no serial killer at all back then? Did three becoming two make a material difference?

  I clicked into the last message – this one was from Dónal.

  Marianne, am emailing you some info on PND and more severe version – postpartum psychosis. Latter very rare, but have a read and come back if you have questions. Linda says hi. Dónal.

  Asta knocked on my door just then, to say she was going out to pick up breakfast. I said I’d go too but she told me to stay put and make coffee. So I did as she suggested, and sat in the sun-filled living room to read Dónal’s information on PND. It was eye-opening and upsetting to think of Hanne going through this, virtually alone and so far from home. The document mentioned that sufferers experience one or more of a long list of symptoms – feeling lonely, feeling a lack of interest in the baby, feeling overwhelmed, and physical symptoms too, like “exhaustion, headaches, stomach pains, or blurred vision”. Halfway down the list, I spotted “panic attacks or feeling trapped in your life”. I sat back. From what she’d written in her letter and told her mother, this was it to a tee. Yet nobody knew to get her the help she needed. Did Dina even call a doctor? The second document Dónal sent was on postpartum psychosis – a serious mental illness to be treated as a medical emergency, according to the information. Symptoms included hallucinations, delusions, and behaving out of character. Was Hanne behaving out of character? That was something only Dina and Erik could answer. I went back to reading the list of PND symptoms, all of which seemed to suddenly slot into place. Or was I seeing connections where there were none – forcing the pieces to fit? I needed a more analytical approach, a list of reasonably concrete facts.

  Grabbing a notebook from my bag, I rummaged for a pen, but came up empty-handed. I glanced around the room. Maybe Asta would have one in the kitchen – I got up to look. None there either. Perhaps in a drawer. The first one I opened contained cutlery, and the one below that, a mishmash of photos and receipts. The third drawer had rolls of film and charging cables, and finally, a pen.

  I grabbed it and sat to make notes.

  As I started to write, I realised the pen had the letters D.F.K. inscribed on it. Suddenly I was transported back ten years to the first time I met Dina. The pen looked very like the one she’d loaned me – the one I’d inadvertently taken with me when I left. Why would Asta have a pen belonging to Dina?

  Just then, I heard a key in the door, and Asta walked in with a brown-paper bag.

  “Ah good, you found the coffee,” she said, walking over to pour herself a cup.

  “Yes,” I said, “and this.” I held up the pen. “Did Dina give it to you?”

  “Dina?”

  “Yes – I think it’s her pen?”

  Asta came over to look at it, and shook her head.

  “No, I think it’s one I picked up at the Youth Club when I was teaching there. What made you think it was Dina’s?”

  I pointed to the inscription. “D.F.K. – her initials. Well, D and K are her initials – I don’t know about the F. I accidentally took a pen with me when I first met her. I’d forgotten all about it till I saw this one.”

  Asta laughed. “They’re not her initials! D.F.K. is Den Første Kirke. It translates as ‘The First Church’. They run classes in the Youth Club for underprivileged children – I guess that’s how I picked up the pen.”

  “Oh! I assumed they were her initials. And yeah, I remember now, you told me she volunteers at the Youth Club.”

  “She’s a member of Den Første Kirke. They are a little – what’s the word – evangelical about getting new members, but they know me now and don’t try anymore. They do lots of good things for the community.”

  “Dina never mentioned it,” I said, turning the pen over in my hand.

  “Why would she mention it? You haven’t had much chance to know each other, and also church isn’t something people here talk about much. Maybe in Ireland it’s different?”

  “No, same at home . . . What kind of church is it – are they part of the Church of Denmark?”

  Asta shrugged. “I’m not sure, my mother would know. I think they’re like Church of Denmark but more strict.”

  “Do they have a website?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.” She opened her Mac and swivelled it towards me. “Have a look if you like?”

  I typed in Den Første Kirke+ Denmark, and the top result seemed to be their official website. Beside the banner at the top of the screen, was a logo: a golden bird, just like the one on Dina’s brooch. The home page showed pictures of children sitting at small tables – it looked like a classroom setting, but I had no idea what the accompanying text said. I turned the screen to Asta.

  “Is that photo from the Youth Club?”

  She tilted her head for a better look. “Not ours, but very similar. I think there are branches of the church in different towns around Denmark.”

  I turned the laptop back. Under a menu option called “Resources” I found links to YouTube videos with various speakers, but again everything was in Danish.

  Asta sat beside me. “They’re talking about getting new members and letting Jesus Christ into your life, being saved – that kind of thing.”

  I clicked into the FAQ section, and Asta leaned over to translate.

  “The first question is ‘Can I be saved?’ and the second one is ‘How can I donate?’ The next one means ‘Why is it called The First Church?’”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m immediately sceptical if the second question is about money! Could that be what it is – a moneymaking racket?”

  “I don’t think so . . . Dina volunteers there, she doesn’t make money from it if I’ve understood correctly from my mother.”

  “Well, sure, she volunteers, but someone is making money if donations are a key feature. Who is the founder?”

  Asta shook her head. “No idea. I’ve never thought about any of it. We always knew that Dina volunteered there and didn’t think anything strange about it. Don’t people volunteer for church activities in Ireland?”

  “They do, but usually mainstream religions we’re all familiar with. This ‘First Church’ seems more . . . niche?”

  “We can ask my mother – she would know more about it. But I think they’re simply a harmless group who feel we are not taking our church seriously any more.”

  I scrolled to the bottom of the Home page and found an “About” menu in the footer. Again, the text was in Danish, but I wasn’t interested in the words. It was the photograph that caught my attention – a picture of someone I’d seen before.

  “Who is this?” I asked Asta.

  “It says his name is Rasmus Abraham, and he founded Den Første Kirke when he became disillusioned with the Church of Denmark. Wow, nearly forty years ago.”

  “Is he from Købæk?”

  She continued to read, her eyes moving over and back across the screen, scanning words that meant nothing to me.

  “Yes, he is – how did you guess?”

  “It’s not a guess – I’m pretty sure I saw him, sitting in Dina’s kitchen when I was here ten years ago.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Not one hundred per cent but it looks really like him.”

  “I guess that’s not so strange though,” Asta said, getting up to pour more coffee for both of us. “If she’s a volunteer, and he’s from here too.”

  “What if it’s more than that?” I said.

  She laughed. “You mean an affair?”

  “God, no! I’m wondering if he was the ‘blond man’?”

  Asta sat back down, putting fresh coffee in front of me.

  “Maybe. But couldn’t it be anyone?” She laughed. “There are lots of blond men in Denmark!”

  “I know . . . but there’s something – the stories of the blond man, the stories of Nøkken, the man I saw in her kitchen . . .”

  Asta looked at me, her eyes wide with sympathy. “And if the
re is something about the blond man, it means we don’t have to worry so much about the dark-haired man, right? About why your dad was here?”

  Slumping back on the couch, I nodded. Whatever was going on with Rasmus Abraham, I still had no idea what my father was doing in Denmark.

  CHAPTER 57

  We were due over to Rikke for lunch, so while Asta took a shower in the apartment’s small bathroom, I sat on her couch with her Mac, googling Den Første Kirke and Rasmus Abraham, and copying text into Google Translate. The top results were all either on the Church’s own website or on YouTube, and my eyes hurt from rolling so hard at the earnest plan to save the people of Denmark. But other than the ubiquitous “donate now” button, and some slightly inflammatory language about “fighting” to save people, I didn’t see anything of great concern. Maybe it really was what it seemed – a harmless spin-off of the more established church.

  As I paused to pour a third cup of coffee, my phone beeped with a message from Jamie – Alan had gone out so he couldn’t check who looked after me while my dad was in Denmark – he’d ask later.

  No rush, I replied, then added Hope all good with you.

  All fine, checked your house last night just to keep an eye while you’re gone, esp as your new alarm not in yet, but all good.

  My new alarm – as if anyone would hear it anyway in the middle of nowhere. But I liked the idea that Jamie had taken the time to check the house. There was something unexpectedly appealing about someone other than me taking an interest in my security.

  Thanks a mill. Any more news on Ray? I asked.

  Nothing new on Ray. But my da saw the poster on the library door – the one about the talk. He nearly crashed the Land Rover. Cue thirty minute of ranting and raving.

  I typed a reply: Should we let the guards know?

  Jamie’s response was succinct. I think Alan can take care of himself.

  I wasn’t worried about Alan.

  Another message pinged through before I had a chance to reply:But yeah, I might mention in passing to Patrick or Geraldine, so Alan doesn’t get himself arrested. I’ll keep you posted.