Three Dog Night (12 page)

‘Erik Gomez Andersen, 44, and his six-year-old daughter Maria were killed yesterday in a tragic accident when Andersen's company helicopter crashed over the Kattegat,' he read. ‘The family of three were on their way to the island of Samsø for the weekend. Flying conditions were perfect, the helicopter had just undergone a major service check and Erik Gomez Andersen was known to be a competent pilot. Only Andersen's wife, Felicia Gomez Andersen, survived the accident, though with serious injuries …'

Peter stood gawping for a long time. Gomez Andersen. The double-barrelled bit must be both of their surnames.

There was a chair, and he sat down on it. He leaned forward to look at the wall above the desk, which along with the chair was the only furniture in the room. Some business cards had been taped to the articles where the people in question had been quoted. The two most prominent ones were Police Inspector Erling Bank, and a man from the Danish Air Accident Investigation Board by the name of Arthur Sand. All the other names seemed to be professional contacts.

He pulled out a couple of the desk drawers and finally found some personal papers. In the top drawer was a beetroot-coloured Danish passport from which Peter discovered that Felix had been born in Seville on 13 November 1976. He also found a pile of unpaid bills stuffed higgledy-piggledy into a large envelope: everything from a TV licence to water and heating for an address in Højbjerg. There were also tax demands and bank statements – all in the red. And then there were letters from banks and solicitors, which revealed that Erik Gomez Andersen had left no money. He had apparently been the MD of a large construction company and the family had lived at the desirable end of Århus. What had Erik Gomez been up to? Where had all the money gone?

Peter looked up and returned the papers to the drawer when he heard the sound of a car outside. It was the doctor in his bottle-green Nineties Rover. Peter went out to greet him and quickly updated him on events overnight and this morning.

Dr Holm was wearing driving gloves and stamping his frozen feet on the ground. Peter showed him the bag he had just packed.

‘I went in to fetch some clothes. But now that you're here there's something you need to see.'

‘In there?'

‘I think it'll help us to understand her better.'

Dr Holm nodded and together they went inside. Peter pushed open the door to the boxroom. Dr Holm moved around with reverence, as if he had entered a chapel. He looked at the walls, making indecipherable grunts. Often he seemed lost in his own musings as he examined a photo or a text. Then he came to.

‘This confirms exactly what I've been told. I took the liberty of asking around. Felix Gomez is, after all, a rather unusual name.'

‘What did you find out?'

Holm turned to Peter.

‘It was her scars. I thought she must have been registered somewhere. I contacted a couple of colleagues and ended up at the Department of Neurology in the old Århus Kommunehospital.'

Again he looked at the photos and newspaper cuttings on the walls.

‘She's suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. Her memory is protecting her from remembering the accident and the ensuing period.'

‘Memory loss?'

The doctor looked at Peter and nodded.

‘Exactly.'

‘She said she wished she'd died in the crash.'

‘Perhaps that's not so surprising. Her husband and her child were killed.'

Peter thought about Felix's duality. About her anger and resistance and his sense that despite everything she was asking for help.

‘You said her amnesia was protecting her. Doesn't she want to remember?'

Holm hesitated.

‘Now this isn't my area. But the doctor I spoke to thinks her memory is right under the surface. And that a single event or piece of information could cause everything to come flooding back.'

F
ELIX DRIFTED IN
and out of a bright, happy dream. The moment she left it, she wanted to return, but something kept bothering her and dragging her away.

‘Come on. I know you can do it,' the voice said.

The hands were there again. At first she didn't want them and flapped her arms to make them go. But they persisted and held her tight and suddenly they were the only thing protecting her against the world and she let them do whatever they wanted: support the back of her neck, stroke her hair, lift her up so they could feed her hot soup. Eventually she let go of the dream.

‘Good girl. I knew you could do it.'

She blinked and swallowed some more. She realised she liked the taste and she was hungry. She couldn't remember when she had last felt hungry.

She watched. And listened. Now who was he again? Where was she?

‘Felix? Can you hear me? Look here. How many fingers am I holding up?'

She moistened her lips and tasted blood and cracked skin.

‘Three. Who are you?'

But she knew. She couldn't remember his name for the moment, but she remembered his voice, which was soft and deep, and the eyes, they were blue-green, and the square jaw, which now bore day-old reddish stubble. His blond hair was the kind that turned completely white in the summer. He could have been a Viking in the old days, she thought. Thickset, bordering on muscular, not so much from the gym as from working in or with nature. Eyes and cheekbones that merged and ended in fine laughter lines, and skin that was accustomed to wind, rain and snow. A warrior, a hunter, the son of a chieftain. There was something lonely about him.

‘The doctor was here. He says you're better. You've been ill for two days.'

She didn't remember anything about a doctor, but she believed him. Now his name came back to her.

‘Peter.'

‘Mmm?'

He ladled another spoonful of soup and she opened her mouth and swallowed it.

‘Your name,' she said.

He grinned. Everything in his face seemed to brighten and open up.

‘That's me. Peter. Like my namesake in the Bible, who denied Jesus three times.'

He winked at her. ‘You're not usually so pleased to see me. Would you like a piece of toast?'

She did want a piece, but she couldn't find the strength to say ‘yes, please'. She could feel herself falling, but he didn't let go of her. She slipped into a soothing, restorative sleep.

When she woke, she was lucid. Far too lucid.

He was still there, as was the dog. He was standing in the corner behind an easel holding a brush; there was an acrid smell of paint and turpentine and she was reminded of the boat which she and Erik had had.

Erik. Maria. The images hovered inside her and lifted her upwards, as if she was floating from a sandy seabed up to the surface, up towards the sun. Someone made a noise. A pitiful lament. Maria's fragile body; the innocence that had been snatched away. Her child. She summoned all her energy to try to block the memory and stifle her own outburst, but Peter was already looking at her searchingly. He put down the paintbrush, went over and sat down beside her.

‘You're awake. Are you hungry?'

She nodded.

‘Toast? Soup? Fillet steak? Oysters?'

She had no practice in smiling and surprised herself when the corners of her mouth lifted and she felt a lightness she thought had been lost.

‘Toast, please.'

‘Coming up.'

He got to his feet.

‘I'd like to go to the loo, please.'

She started the laborious effort of swinging her legs on to the floor.

‘Here. Hold on to me.'

He helped her to the bathroom.

‘Give me a shout if you need any help.'

Two whole days. She stood supporting herself on the sink. She looked in the mirror and saw a scrawny ghost, with sockets for eyes and dark, lank hair against white skin. She had a hurried pee and staggered back to the mattress. He had made toast with butter and honey, and there was also a glass of milk.

‘How …?'

‘You were attacked and received a blow to the head. Afterwards you slipped on the ice outside. You're as stubborn as a mule.'

That was exactly what her mother used to say. It was nothing new. She wondered how much of her he had seen. She lowered her gaze and her fingers ran across the familiar spotted material. Someone must have put her in her pyjamas.

‘I went to your house for some clothes. I saw your secret room.'

He could have asked about Maria and she would have screamed. He could also have asked about the accident and she would have said that she remembered nothing.

‘Tell me something about Erik. Anything you can remember.'

‘I was married to him. I loved him.'

As she said it she had doubts.

‘What was he like?'

‘He had affairs.'

He clearly expected her to say more. At that moment she wished her memory loss would protect her. But her memory had already started to return when they discovered the body at the foot of the cliff.

She looked at him. Something inside her wanted to tell him everything. But another part of her made her hold back. She didn't tell him about the high life they had lived, she and Erik. A privileged life. A house in Skåde with a view of the sea and the woods, a daily cleaner, their own yacht at Marselisborg Marina – Erik had named it
Felix
– and one well-behaved six-year-old child whom she had loved to dress in the latest fashion. She was the manager of a shop in the centre of Århus: skincare, spa, exclusive brands of make-up, well-groomed, fit employees. She had worked her way up from the bottom; she had literally started as a cleaner and five years later she was in charge. This was what she was good at: working her way up and doggedly sticking at it.

Erik was the managing director of one of the country's largest construction firms and received a salary appropriate to his status. The company, Kjær Entreprise A/S, had its own helicopter and Erik, who had held a pilot's licence since he was young, had flown it both for business and pleasure.

‘How did you meet?' Peter asked.

It was a trick, to make her open up. To make her pour out intimate details about how Erik had been at the beauty clinic in Bruunsgade one day to buy a gift card to pamper his wife. Although he was handsome enough, he was nothing special. It was his attitude she fell for. As if he took it for granted that the world existed for him.

She sold him the most exclusive package and he invited her out. They fell in love – yes, they had been in love, hadn't they? – and he divorced his wife.

Peter handed her a glass of milk and tried to make her drink some more. He had kind eyes and nice hands. But could she trust him?

‘I didn't grow up with money,' she heard herself say. ‘We left Spain when I was six years old. My mum was on her own with my brother and me. She worked as a cleaner, but then she met a Dane.'

She saw he was interested. Talking about this particular subject seemed harmless enough.

‘We moved to Denmark. I promised myself that one day I would have a lot of money. I thought money would give me a nice, free life.'

He smiled.

‘That's what you think when you haven't got any,' she said. ‘I loved Erik, and I loved the security his income gave me.'

Peter broke off a piece of toast and held it up to her mouth. She chewed and drank from the milk he held out for her.

‘You're looking better.'

She shook her head.

‘You're beautiful,' he insisted.

She didn't have the strength to blush, but, quite absurdly, her body suddenly felt different. It was only brief, but it was there, like the memory of a life she no longer had.

‘You're also very private.'

She remembered the trip that summer. They had talked for ages about flying to Samsø some day. Everything was planned around the weather forecast, which promised a week of sunshine. They would fly from the company's helipad. The four-seater helicopter was reserved and checked, the helipad on Samsø had been alerted and a table had been booked for lunch at Ballen Marina. After lunch they intended to spend a couple of hours on the beach, so bags were packed with swimming costumes, snorkels and towels, suntan lotion and baseball caps.

She remembered all of this without difficulty: the planning, the sense of anticipation. But there were still gaps around the accident itself. Perhaps they would always be there. Perhaps this was how she wanted it, but she could hardly tell him that. She was private, yes. There were aspects even she didn't want to confront, so why share them with others?

‘I found the room with the newspaper cuttings,' Peter said. ‘Is it an attempt to remember what happened?'

He had sat her on the sofa with pillows and the duvet. He focused his attention on her, so much so she felt as if she was under a microscope.

‘They kept asking me questions. The police and the Air Accident Investigation Board. So I tried to create a system.'

She took the glass of milk from the tray and drained it.

‘You said Erik had affairs?'

She made do with a nod while remembering the signs: text messages from mistresses, which she found when she checked his mobile; his shirts smelling of unfamiliar perfumes; a packet of condoms in his jacket pocket. She had known about it and still closed her eyes. She hadn't wanted to know and she had managed to suppress it.

‘What about Ramses?'

‘What about him?'

She wriggled down under the duvet. She didn't have the energy. What was he really doing here, this strange man? What did he want from her when it came down to it? Was he friend or foe? She wished her tiredness and dreams would come back. Now she was getting agitated.

‘I've seen him before,' she said at length. ‘I can't remember where or how.'

‘Try.'

‘That's easy for you to say.'

‘I know.'

He could be irritating, but right now he was all she had. Him and the dog, which had reclined on the floor within patting distance. And then there was the doctor he had mentioned, but he might have invented that.