Next of Kin (12 page)

Rose was kneeling by her bike checking the tyres, which were both flat. Someone had let them down, she concluded. She felt like a schoolchild in the sixth grade, like when the boys took their revenge because she couldn't be bothered with them.

She began to push the bike while her thoughts bumped along. Was it just a coincidence? Or was someone trying to tell her something?

A coincidence, she forced herself to think. The university park was open to all, including for children to wander around in during school breaks. It could have been anyone.

She dragged her bike through the park and down to the town with her iPod in her pocket and the new Coldplay album in her ears, the last few days flickering past like a music video. She missed Aziz. All her muscles and bones, not to mention her skin, missed him. But he had gone back to Copenhagen and she wouldn't see him until Friday. The farewell had been brief and to the point. He hadn't wanted any tears. No sweet words or long embraces. Their last night had clearly upset him and put up all the barriers. He hadn't said anything, but she was sure he was especially on his guard because of the two immigrant boys Katrine had dragged home with her. She wanted to reassure him and say the chances of them recognising him or knowing any of his old friends were minimal, but his face had hardened, as though he had put on a mask.

She was also beginning to doubt his love for her. However, he had made amends by hugging her, just for a second, and whispering in her ear, ‘If they do anything to you, I'll kill them. Take care of yourself.'

Then he was gone and she'd sensed rather than heard his light steps down the stairs.

She pushed her bike down Nørregade, past Paradisgade and towards Guldsmedegade. That was how it was going to be. One minute he was there; the next he wasn't.

The hammer of truth struck in time with the music and Chris Martin's voice. It was just the same for her mother. Bo loved her, but he was restless and could disappear to the other side of the world for weeks at a time. He was there and yet he wasn't. Perhaps that kind of thing was hereditary. Perhaps that was how a special kind of independence was developed.

She hadn't spoken to her mother since she'd shouted at her on the telephone. Now she discovered that her legs were taking her along Immervad and up Frederiksgade to where the newspaper sign hung in the top window. Down in the square people hustled and bustled past the illegal jewellery stands where she had herself bought a nose ring, which had annoyed her mother and delighted her father. She couldn't understand where the time had gone since then. She had been a child. Now she felt like an adult, or at least that she was well on the way to becoming one. She was already in love with a part of adult life. The part that included her love for Aziz and her independence. She feared another part. The part where she had to manage on her own, knowing she really was alone.

A sudden yearning for childhood drove her toward the door. She propped up her bike, went upstairs and knocked before stepping into the office. Her mother was standing with her jacket and bag over her shoulder. Hundreds of glimpses of the same situation over the passing years flashed in front of Rose.

‘Hello, sweetheart. How annoying. I'm on my way out.'

‘Where are you going?'

‘On a job,' came the vague response.

‘Alone?'

Her mother hooked arms with her. ‘Come on. We can go together. Do you want a lift?'

‘Someone's let the air out of my tyres.' She felt like a child wanting attention. She sounded like one.

‘Okay, get the bike and we'll put it in the boot. It'll be all right for the short distance.'

Rose went to get it and wheeled it through the entrance where the car was parked. Between them they managed to push it in until only the front wheel was protruding. Her mother looked at the flat tyre as the wheel spun a final time. ‘Do you know who did it?'

Rose could hear concern and fancied she could hear an accusation somewhere, too. ‘Nope. Probably just some boys.'

‘Where was it? At the university?'

Rose nodded and moved some newspapers from the front seat to the dog blanket at the back and got in the car. She pulled at the seat belt and it jammed.

‘Shit.' Her eyes filled. She dried the tears, discreetly, she hoped.

‘Now, now.' Her mother started the car, but didn't put it into gear. ‘Take a deep breath and tell me what's happened. Is it Aziz?'

‘It wasn't him who let down my tyres.'

The irritation had to come out. She knew she was behaving like a child, and now she was getting the attention she'd wanted, but not in the way she needed.

‘Where did you meet him?'

It came out in staccato sentences, and in the end it was told. She couldn't look up at her mother, but she knew what her expression would be. She could hear it in her voice which was strained, but feigned calmness.

‘It's your decision, and I will support you. That goes without saying. I hope you know what you're doing.'

She didn't know, of course. They both knew that.

‘It's a long time ago now,' Rose said. ‘And nothing has happened. You can't go round looking over your shoulder your whole life, can you?'

Rose was glad she wasn't asked why not. At least her mother accepted that things were as they were. That they were seeing each other.

‘This isn't personal. You know that, don't you? When I get worried, I mean.'

Rose shrugged.

Her mother went on. ‘I'm sure Aziz is in love with you, but that doesn't necessarily mean he'll want you forever and ever. Perhaps he's not in a position to determine that himself.'

‘Yes, he is.'

‘He might say that now. And perhaps he is. But his family must have an opinion, and you can't expect them to accept the fact that he has a Danish girlfriend just like that.' She repeated herself with emphasis. ‘You just can't do that. Have you met any of them?'

‘No,' Rose lied, thinking of Nazleen and her scarf.

‘What did Aziz say about the articles?'

‘He was angry.'

Her mother nodded and finally reversed the car. ‘Naturally. That's the easiest.'

‘What's that supposed to mean?'

Her mother drove out of the car park. They had reached Åboulevarden before she answered.

‘Aziz is sensitive. He's a Muslim and his fellow-believers are under a lot of pressure right now. They all feel they're under suspicion, put in the same category as terrorists, and that's absolutely understandable.'

‘But?' Rose asked.

‘But he has to accept that there are certain things the press has to deal with. So it might hurt and it might feel oppressive. But we aren't the ones who stage-manage these things. We aren't the ones who film an execution and send a film that's bound to make everyone think of Muslim terrorists. Nor are we the ones who thought up 9/11.'

Rose caught a sidelong glance from her mother. The journalist's glance. The one that preached the sacred freedom of speech and democracy with a capital D. And, yes, of course it was important, she understood that.

‘Okay, it might be that none of this has a damn thing to do with Muslims. We're waiting for the truth, which is out there somewhere. But we write that, too.'

Journalism. Always journalism. In recent years it had got worse. Her mother was so preoccupied. She always burrowed her way down into cases, which suddenly became more important than anything else, then, with her head down, powered through everything that came in her path. It was the same with Bo and the same with Aziz. Sometimes she simply disappeared from Rose's life. Like now. Her mind was obviously absorbed by the job she was on her way to do—whatever it was.

They had reached Ingerslev's Boulevard and a couple of minutes later the car stopped outside the flat in Christian Wærumsgade. Rose got out and took her bag. She needed a hug but couldn't quite get herself together and, after manoeuvring out the bike, made do with a wave.

Later she took the bike to the cycle repairman and went for a walk in Bruuns Galleri to look at all the new clothes she'd like to buy but had no way of affording. She was going down the escalator when she heard a commotion in the crowd behind her, and saw a small group of immigrant boys pushing past everyone. It all happened so fast she didn't have time to react. She felt a hand take a firm hold of her groin. She realised one of the boys was facing her, moving against the flow. He was so close that she couldn't see him as she felt his breath against her cheek. The voice was throaty and the accent thick.

‘Tell your boyfriend we're watching him.'

Dicte drove past the marina and Tangkrogen and turned off Strandvejen, on the way to Odder. Rose's words were churning round in her head. Her daughter had always been a sensible girl, but now there was a depth and a new earnestness in her voice. Aziz was not just a transitional boyfriend as she had hoped, just as she had hoped they really would separate after all that had happened.

As she drove she tried to analyse things with brutal honesty.

It wasn't his skin colour or his background. She had nothing against either per se. Nor was it really the fact that he had killed a person, although that was serious enough, but she couldn't let herself judge him on that account. No, it was more the thought of the problems the relationship would necessarily have to go through, the culture clash and how Rose might be influenced by Aziz's family. Would they persuade her to convert to Islam? A sudden image of Rose wearing a scarf made her stomach somersault. She squeezed the steering wheel.

‘Pull yourself together.'

She said it aloud to the windscreen wipers slapping the drizzle away. Now she would have to stop seeing ghosts where perhaps there were none. She would have to trust Rose and believe that she would simply not let herself be influenced.

But then she thought of what love can do to even the most sensible of people and immediately had to shut her mind to it to avoid driving into the ditch. As a teenager she had fallen in love and that had led to a catastrophe. She wasn't much better herself, but of course this wasn't about her.

She forced herself to put the issue out of her mind and played a CD of Diana Krall singing ‘I've got you under my skin'. Under her skin, it certainly was. Like a poisonous snake that had crawled in looking for shelter and was lying somewhere coiled around muscle and bone: Rose and Aziz; the fear of revenge and the terrorism that would increase the problems; the film, the tattoo; the persistent feeling that there was a connection between a decapitated man and her own veiled past. How would she find her way through?

Dicte began to focus on the impending meeting.

Of course she should have known he no longer lived in Ikast. Perhaps she should have known he had moved to the Aarhus area. Aarhus had always had a magnetic effect on the well-educated of surrounding parts; if they didn't make the jump to Copenhagen, that is. She guessed he was teaching at a school in Odder.

It would have been easy enough to find him. A couple of phone calls, a quick look in the telephone book and bingo. She could have found him any time she wanted. She could have breathed out. Even exacted her revenge? Got her own back for that day, sixteen years old and pregnant with his child, in need of his help, she had confronted him and he had spurned her.

Why, in fact, had she never visited him since?

She drove down Oddervej, following her nose and the print-out off the net on the passenger seat. He lived in a nice residential area, she could see. He, the man who had been so red and had once had nothing but contempt for the middle classes. The man who'd wanted to be as free as a bird—also in love and sex—and never wanted to commit himself to own property or, for that matter, a car, which would contribute to polluting the whole world and thus its destruction.

He had been twenty-seven when he was employed as a teacher in her school. Now he'd be in his fifties. She wondered if they would even recognise each other.

There were two cars in the carport, a Škoda and a Kia, and that annoyed her. His wife must be at home—of course he would have one. She spotted a couple of bikes just inside the carport. They must have children, too—he probably had them late. They were still living at home.

And, out of the blue, here comes an old girlfriend to rake up the past.

Dicte sat for a moment in the car. Was it tough on him? On his wife? The children? But, goodness, all she needed to tell them was that she had been a girlfriend in the commune and was trying to track down old friends.

She'd never told him that she was pregnant. However, it must have come to his ears. The rumour must have spread, even before he left the school and was thus spared the sight of her growing stomach. Someone must have told him that somewhere in the world he had a son.

Finally, she made up her mind. She got out, walked up to the door and rang the bell. A young man of Rose's age opened the door. He was the spitting image of his father with his almost white, longish hair, broad face and cleft chin.

‘Is your father at home?'

The boy threw her a quick glance, then stepped back a pace and yelled down the corridor.

‘Daaad. It's for you.'

‘Who is it?' came the shout back as the voice came closer. ‘Who …?'

He stood in front of her wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and jeans, and if she had been in any doubt, the distinctive tower tattoo was on his upper arm. His hair was cut short, perhaps to hide the fact that there wasn't much left. His body was weighed down by a few too many kilos around his waist, but his eyes were still a very clear blue, and they were regarding her with curiosity.

‘Hi, Morten. I don't know if you recognise me.'

For that second he obviously didn't, and she had time to wonder if she'd changed as much as he had.

Almost in a whisper he said, ‘Benedicte. It is you, isn't it?'

He was nervous. She saw that in the way his Adam's apple bobbed up and down, and in the sudden movement of his hand to smooth the hair that wasn't there.

‘I've come to talk to you about old times.'

A flashback took her to commune days, but she soon returned to the present. She had hardly given him a thought since then. The child, yes. Every single day. But not him. He had no significance, except that her son had his genes and at this juncture he could be used to ease a burden for her. Falling in love was an aeon ago.

‘Do come in.'

That should have sounded hospitable, but instead it sounded forced. His wife appeared in the kitchen.

‘Who … is this?'

‘Astrid …' He fumbled for words.

‘My name is Dicte,' Dicte said, proffering her hand. ‘I'm a journalist and I just need to ask your husband a few questions.'

‘What about?'

Astrid was younger than him. Probably my age, Dicte guessed. She was also good-looking, with thick, dark, curly hair, olive skin and big brown eyes. She looked like the Danish singer, Anisette.

‘Just something that happened in Ikast many years ago,' she said breezily, but noticed Morten squirming. ‘It has something to do with a story I'm working on. I'm writing about seventies' communes,' she said.

‘We can go to my study.' He said it in such a strained way that his wife must have heard it. But she pretended she hadn't and Dicte obediently followed him down the corridor.

‘What do you actually want?' This came in a whisper after he had carefully closed the door behind him. ‘If it's money—'

‘Money?' She gawped at him. ‘Why on earth would I ask for money?'

‘Well, what then? What the hell do you want?'

He had sat down on an office chair. She stood in front of him. She realised he was frightened of her, and she could feel her disappointment grow, followed closely by a sensation of power.

‘It has nothing to do with us.'

He visibly relaxed, but a vein in his temple was throbbing.‘What is it to do with then? Why have you come here …?' Then he lowered his voice—it had increased in volume ‘… to where I live with my family. My wife and my children …'

‘Spare me the hypocrisy,' Dicte interrupted. ‘I'm not interested in your family. I couldn't care less whether you screw your students, as you used to do.'

He flushed. He opened his mouth to say something, but she quickly went on.

‘What I said was in fact true. I have to find out something about the commune you lived in. What was it you called yourselves? The Dark Tower?'

He nodded and gulped again. His tongue circled his mouth. ‘Tolkien,' he said.

‘Evil? Sauron's tower in Mordor? Why?'

He shrugged. ‘It was just a name. It sounded smart. It was in at the time.'

She sat on the edge of the desk and leaned towards him. He retreated slightly.

‘Like the commune called Mao's Pleasure? Like the Red Front and Ho Ho Ho Chi Minh and the fascination with Pol Pot?'

His mouth changed shape. The corners curled downwards, sullen. ‘Easy to be wise after the event. There are good things to say about those times.'

‘Of course,' she said. ‘Free sex, for example. That's what it was like in your commune, wasn't it? Natural. You had to follow your desires.' She straightened up. ‘Kjeld Arne Husum. What do you remember about him?'

His facial expression didn't change. But a hand reached out for a ballpoint pen and he twirled it between his fingers. ‘Why?'

‘Because he's dead.'

The blood drained from his face. ‘Has it anything to do with … I've seen your articles.'

Of course he had. He had followed the news like everyone else. He knew what it was about. An insight came flooding in: her photo and by-line would be familiar from the newspaper, to friends and foe alike. That wasn't something she had any control over.

‘I can't tell you that,' she said.

He stared into space. The pen rotated between his fingers again and again. ‘He was one of Kaspar's friends.'

‘Kaspar?'

‘My friend from teacher training college.'

She couldn't remember the names of any of the other commune-dwellers. Only a few faces.

‘They were involved in organising demos, that sort of thing.'

‘What sort of demonstrations?'

He shrugged. There had been a lot to demonstrate against in those days. ‘Against the Vietnam war, for example.'

‘What sort of person was he?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Can you remember any particular details about him? What was his family like? His friends? Enemies?'

‘Enemies?'

‘Was there anyone who didn't like him? Did you?'

There was a crack as the pen snapped. He bent down and feverishly picked up the pieces, thereby keeping his face hidden. When he stood up, he looked composed and detached.

‘Of course. Everyone liked Kjeld Arne.'

Dicte could clearly smell the lie. ‘How long did he live in the commune?'

Using his fingers, he worked out the answer: ‘Getting on for two years, as far as I remember.'

‘Have you got Kaspar's address?'

He gave it to her, obviously hoping she would let him off the hook. But she didn't make a move until she had a list of all those who had been living in the commune during the years he had been there.

‘What about his family?' she asked before leaving. ‘Where did they live? Did they ever visit him?'

She was suddenly reminded of what it was like playing Hot and Cold. His expression was so blank that she had to be getting hot.

‘I can't remember them,' he said. Another transparent lie.