Three Dog Night (13 page)

‘I saw him with Erik. They were up to something. What, I don't know.'

M
OST OF THE
eight hundred pigs had long since been sent to the abattoir, and those that had died when the barn collapsed had been destroyed. The roof had been ten years old and the present work consisted of clearing up the mess before a new roof could be built. It was hard going. The weather was against them, but the farmer was keen to get started with a new herd.

‘Nice of you to show up,' the pig farmer said sarcastically. ‘We know you've had other things on your mind.'

Christian Røjel was a man who was used to being in charge and Peter could clearly hear the censure in his voice. Røjel was tall and lean with a long face that reflected his life as a farmer: ruddy-cheeked and weather-beaten, with hands the size of shovels, protected today by rough working gloves. He wore a cap and an Icelandic sweater under his padded overalls. Wellies and a permanent smell of pig completed the picture.

Peter nodded, but he didn't apologise or elaborate. Everyone had heard about the discovery of Ramses' body and possibly about Felix as well. When you lived in the country you didn't need a radio or a television. Rumours were much quicker, and gossip spread without let or hindrance from village to village.

‘And then there's little Nina,' Røjel said in a milder tone of voice, still spoiling for a fight.

‘But they've found her, haven't they?' Peter said. ‘Didn't Kir recover her?'

It was possibly not the most propitious thing to say. He knew Christian Røjel had never approved of his daughter's choice of career. Diving to the bottom of the sea, looking for bodies, it was not a suitable job for a woman, but Kir was a rebel and did exactly what she wanted. The family's history was well known locally; every family's was.

‘Ye-ah,' the pig farmer said, spitting. ‘She was there with them. They found Nina in Grenå Harbour yesterday. They're saying they'll open her up today.'

Peter decided to change the subject.

‘So how far have you got?'

He scanned the collapsed barn. Røjel took in the destruction with a sweep of his hand.

‘Falck was here and supported the structure so that we could get the animals out. The insurance company says the rafters cracked under the weight of the snow.'

‘Will they pay up?'

‘Too damn right they will! The roof was built according to the regulations in place at the time.'

Together they walked across to the group of helpers, who greeted them amicably. The group included Claus Dam, who still lived with his mother at the age of forty-five; Birger, the grocer's son Hans, and Røjel's younger son, Tomas.

‘How do, Peter,' Claus Dam said, straightening up. ‘Some New Year's Eve company you're keeping. We hear you found a dead body washed up on the beach.'

‘And a happy New Year to you, too, Claus,' Peter said.

‘Well, it could happen to anyone,' Hans said.

‘What? Ending up dead on the beach or finding a body?' Peter asked.

The mood lightened. Everyone laughed.

‘With all that walking you do by the cliff it's a wonder you haven't found one before,' Birger opined. ‘My wife says you're there all the time.'

‘Not when I'm here,' Peter said, and bent down to drag away a smashed rafter. ‘So, Christian, has the insurance company said it wouldn't have happened if the roof had been newer?'

‘If my aunt'd had bollocks, she'd have been my uncle,' Røjel muttered, grabbing hold of the rafter. ‘They say they're checking the building regs. Eight roofs in total have collapsed after the snowstorm here in Jutland alone.'

‘The problem occurs when it thaws,' Claus chipped in. ‘Then the snow is too heavy, and if it's more than half a metre thick, the roof can't take it.'

‘A riding hall collapsed,' Birger said. ‘One girl was injured.'

‘What is it about girls and horses?' Claus said, and left the rest of the sentence hanging.

They carried on working in good-natured silence. Peter observed them from time to time as they struggled with the heavy beams and the snow creaked from the weight of their boots.

The doctor had dropped by for a third time to check on Felix. He was satisfied with her progress, even though her concussion was still causing concern and she remained very weak. The main thing was that she had started eating, although she was still taking only small amounts. They had agreed that Peter could go to work, no problem.

‘You can't put your whole life on hold,' Dr Holm said, and he was right. It was important that Peter maintained his everyday routine. Felix could disappear from his life at the drop of a hat. He had already let her in too far.

When he first moved to the area, Peter had been aware of the locals' scepticism. He had sensed that they talked about him behind his back, and he knew his prison sentence was common knowledge. But in some weird way he had managed to gain their acceptance, even though he would always be an outsider. He kept a low profile in Djursland, and that seemed to be the norm for everyone. He didn't stick his nose into anything or into anyone's lives. He let people get to know him. He let them talk and doggedly maintained a friendly attitude. He had only a few friends, but they were precious. They accepted him as he was and came to terms with the fact he wasn't always sociable. He needed space. Emptiness. He needed his own company, but he also needed theirs.

He hadn't moved here with a dream of becoming like them, but nor was he trying to change anything. They were the way they were. They had their secrets, and in all probability he knew only a fragment of what was going on. Many of them drove around in expensive cars, but where did the money come from? Several were on the dole or some other kind of benefit and still did odd jobs. Others lived off their parents and had never left home – Claus was by no means the only one. It was a kind of Klondike: a land beyond the rule of law. Everyone minded their own business. That suited him fine.

‘Give us a hand, will you, Peter?'

Peter helped the pig farmer with a roofing sheet while his thoughts continued to churn.

He was no saint, either, when it came to tax. He worked loyally for Manfred of course, and this job was an insurance claim, so the paperwork would have to be in order. But occasionally a cash-in-hand job came up outside working hours, and Manfred was perfectly happy to turn a blind eye. In this way, life here suited him fine: have as little to do with the authorities as possible and when they turn up, don't give them more than absolutely necessary. If there was any kind of creed he would sign up to, then this was it. He'd had too many bad experiences with everything else.

He let go of the roofing sheet and went over to help Tomas, who was struggling with a beam. Of the three siblings, Røjel's younger son was the most difficult to talk to.

‘Canny lass, your sister, eh?'

He asked this as they were carrying the beam over to a heap in the snow. Tomas nodded and glanced over at his father. He was sniffing. Peter could see from his eyes he had a cold.

‘It was her who found that body yesterday.'

His voice was flat and monotonous. Tomas was lean like his father but didn't have his brute strength. With his delicate appearance and careful movements he seemed far too refined to work on a farm.

‘How are things with Red and the pub?'

Tomas's older brother, Red, had an Irish pub in Grenå called the Bull's Eye.

‘All right, I think.'

‘I might drop by some time.'

‘It's a great pub,' Tomas said proudly.

Everyone knew the story of how Kir had dived into the sea and saved his life. They said it was a miracle he had survived. There were also rumours that this might be the reason why Tomas was a little odd.

‘So you'll be taking over the farm in due course?'

An indeterminate expression spread across Tomas's face.

‘I think so.'

They carried on working in silence. Peter thought about Stinger. He ought to do something to find him, but he had run out of ideas. He couldn't stay off work, and then there was Felix, who was undoubtedly feeling better, although she still needed him. He had called Elisabeth several times, but she had no news for him. Stinger had vanished into thin air, and his mobile was dead.

When it grew dark they stopped work and went their separate ways, and Peter went home. Felix was sitting on the sofa cuddling the dog. He fried a couple of steaks and made some mashed potato, which he served for her on a tray. While they ate, he made yet another attempt to get her to talk about the accident and her past, but she reacted so badly that he gave up.

He stayed awake until she fell asleep, covered almost completely by the duvet and with her head sunk into the pillows, looking very small indeed. He thought about lying beside her and holding her, but decided she was probably so well now that she would regard it as taking advantage of her. So, as usual, he put a mattress outside in the cold and slipped into his sleeping bag with the dog snuggling up against him on the fleece. For a long time he lay there looking up at the sky and the stars and listening to the waves rolling in, while the dog breathed regularly by his side. Everyone had something they had to do, he thought. Something they couldn't do differently. Just as he had to sleep under the open sky, he knew he also had to find Stinger. And however much he had wanted to live without getting mixed up in other people's lives, this was now impossible. His isolation had been broken; he might as well accept it. Beneath him, on a mattress, a woman lay asleep and she was his responsibility because that was what he wanted.

He was deep in a dream without any meaning when a persistent sound slowly brought him back to the surface. It took him a while to work out that it was his mobile ringing, and that it was already morning. When he finally managed to press the button, he could barely recognise the voice of Elisabeth Stevns through her sobs.

‘You've got to come. Stinger is asking for you. Come right now. It's bad.'

M
ARK
B
ILLE
H
ANSEN
preferred the old police station in Grenå he remembered from his childhood. However, changing requirements and times had caused the council to build a more spacious, modern version on Vester Skovvej, east of Ringgaden on the road to Århus. It was on the outskirts of Grenå, hidden away like an unwanted child, behind tall trees with only a small, discreet ‘Police' sign to show citizens where to go.

Parking spaces were at a premium this morning. Someone had already taken his personal spot, so he slowly circled all the unfamiliar cars a couple of times, then left his car blocking the entrance to the adjacent green, which at this moment was an icy white. Anna Bagger and her numerous colleagues were camped out on half of the first floor. He noticed that her new company car – a Renault Scenic with sunroof and trendy aluminium wheels – was parked right in front of the main entrance. Apart from the Århus cars, the divers' vehicles occupied the rest of the space. Local coppers were well down the pecking order.

He had only just said good morning to his colleagues and sat down behind his desk to switch on his computer when there was a knock at the door. Anna Bagger entered without waiting for a reply. Her entire appearance, from the pale blue blouse and dark trouser suit to the light-coloured glossy lipstick, exuded an aura of calm and gentle forbearing, but he sensed at once that it was a front. There was something hectic about her movements, which were normally so gracious, and her eyes sparkled a thousand shades of blue.

And he knew why. He had been expecting it.

‘Good morning, Anna. What's new?'

She drew breath audibly.

‘I'll tell you what's new. I went to see Peter Boutrup, our man on the cliff, the other day, but he wasn't there. So I rang him to summon him here for an interview, and do you know what he said?'

Rhetorical question, Mark assumed.

‘He said you'd already spoken to him.'

He nodded.

‘That's right. So?'

‘Yes, so?'

She turned her back on him and paced up and down his small office, then spun round to face him again. Her voice was rising in pitch, even though she was very obviously trying to control it. A big part of him felt like ignoring every rule and regulation and telling her to sling her hook, but a very small part wanted the exact opposite. The small part wanted to undo her hair, unbutton her blouse and relax her with drink. It was the same part of him that wanted to have sex with her.

‘I thought we had an agreement,' she said. ‘This is a murder investigation. Interviews fall under In-ves-ti-ga-tion. That was what we agreed, wasn't it?'

He watched her. She could be frightening when she was angry, but she didn't frighten him.

‘I'm the local police officer in the district where the murder took place,' he said with a calm he knew would provoke her. ‘I was the first officer on the scene and I had some questions for a man in my area. I was only doing my job.'

He splayed his palms with a smile that had once been enough to disarm her. He was far from sure of its effect now.

‘If that's illegal you'll just have to lead me off in cuffs.'

She rested her knuckles on the desktop and leaned over.

‘Don't you play the clown with me, Mark. I know you. And I know perfectly well this isn't about the case. Let's be honest.'

‘I don't have a problem with honesty. Do you? Don't you think we owe it to everyone in this building to let them listen in as we exhibit our relationship in all its splendour? I'd be quite happy to leave the door open.'

She retreated slightly and blinked, as if she had been on the other end of an attack. He got up and walked over to the door, where he placed his hand on the door handle, then let go.

‘There was no interview,' he said. ‘I made no notes and I haven't filed a report. You're free to interview Boutrup. I had a chat with him, that's all.'