Next of Kin (25 page)

The morning was wet and the road glistened as Ole Nyborg Madsen followed the lights of the black Volvo.

He had started in Højbjerg, then he took the outer ring road to Randersvej and went past Lisbjerg. Now the car was indicating to turn left towards the Aarhus Waste Management site. Ole did the same. A little later it indicated again, this time to the right, and the two cars drove into the lot where a couple of gigantic trucks with container trailers were being weighed.

They drove towards the recycling section, under the sign saying ‘No weighing' and continued down the road. To the right the matt pale green siding of the incineration plant towered up and over the site. The jagged roof cut into the sky with its pointed teeth and a chimney soared above the whole thing like a steeple in Gotham City, the grey day made even darker by its spewing smoke.

The Volvo drove into the recycling section and stopped. Ole Nyborg Madsen braked. What the hell were they doing here? Getting rid of some old junk? He found it difficult to imagine any mess in the boot of the immaculate Volvo. He thought of the bag of empty bottles he had been driving around with for a couple of days. That seemed to be more fitting for an old Ford. Anyway, the bag gave him an alibi for being here when the dump opened, should the need arise.

Ole had cancelled a couple of appointments and followed his instincts, aware that what he was doing was wrong. But he couldn't stop himself and—he had to admit—he had to see where this would lead. That was his thinking. Nanna would understand. Nothing else had any meaning.

He thought of the email and how he had felt. All the heat had gone out of him. He was finally able to see everything so clearly: what he had to do, the purpose of the rest of his life.

That was why he was sitting here. That was why he had sat outside the house in Højbjerg waiting and watching the father playing chauffeur for his son, who wasn't allowed to drive yet. The son who had murdered Nanna. Lars Emil Andersen.

Ole reversed into the car park by the green container where you dumped electronic goods. Beyond it were signs saying ‘Pressurised Cylinders' and ‘Car Batteries'. They were certainly organised here. Perhaps they could apply the same principles to the cemetery and divide a life up into categories for every little part so that it could be re-used: bitterness in one drawer, disappointment in another, restlessness in a third, longing in a fourth. And a special high security section for all the dangerous stuff: hatred in a vacuum-packed container. Irresponsible behaviour behind bullet-proof glass. Revenge sealed in the zinc coffins used for dead soldiers on the battlefield.

What he was doing was dangerous; he knew that.

He waited. Soon the passenger door of the black Volvo opened and a young man with blond hair stepped out with a blue bag hanging from his shoulder. He leaned over the open door, said something to the driver, slammed it and went over to the grey wooden shed where the site staff worked.

The Volvo drove off. Ole sat waiting, and a little later the blond-haired man came out of the shed wearing dark blue nylon overalls with velcro-ed reflectors on his arms and legs. As though he'd never done anything else but work here, where people got rid of their old crap.

It must be a council job, Ole thought, feeling his resentment begin to grind away inside him. That must have been how it was. You help those who drink themselves senseless and run over other people's daughters. Stands to reason, doesn't it? He sat with the radio on, letting the anger soak through his body, up to his brain where it became white streaks of lightning flashing behind his eyes in time with the music.

Lars Emil Andersen had walked down to one of the green containers. ‘Light Combustible' it said, explaining in brackets that ‘light' meant under a metre in length. He put up a sign saying ‘Closed'. Then he walked towards the ‘Toxic Waste' section and started sorting through old paint cans.

Ole needed air. He switched off the radio and got out with his collar turned up. Not that he thought the boy would recognise him. During the trial he hadn't wanted to look at anyone, least of all the parents of his victim.

He took the bottles from the boot of his car. He'd been sloppy and had forgotten to tie up the bag. A couple of wine bottles had rolled out and now the car smelled of alcohol. Shit. He felt an urge to smash his fist down on the car roof, but the thought of what Maibritt would say stopped him. As it was, she'd sniff the air and accuse him of drinking in the car. That was bad enough.

He filled the bag and walked over to the hexagonal bottle bank. There was quite a crowd there feeding bottles through the belly of the green container. Ole went round to the other side and began to put his through the hole, letting them fall and smash.

‘Very practical, this recycling plant,' said a man nearby. ‘We have to look after the environment.'

Ole stared at him, but didn't answer. The lightning in his brain stopped flashing and he was back in his previous existence, just a middle-aged psychologist with a bag of empties and a predictable life. He gazed up at the grey sky, at all the containers and the garden refuse on the other side, the dead twigs and branches, the piles of leaves almost turned to compost, giving off a sweet, putrid smell which hung in the air. Rotting, just like his dreams and plans of a happy future. Let me out, a voice screamed inside him. Out of this accursed life.

He went back to his car and started the engine. He promised himself he wouldn't return, but deep down he knew it was like regretting a hangover and that, after a while, he would be overwhelmed by the same compulsion.

Dicte was one of the last passengers to get on when the bus stopped in Skanderborgvej.

She followed the throng of early-morning types into the middle of the bus and kept an eye on the man in the yellow raincoat as he took a seat by the window. A woman quickly sat down on the seat next to him. Dicte stood behind him further back and trusted her luck.

Her chance came as the woman got up for the Rosenvangs Alle stop. Dicte pushed forward and slipped into the vacant seat.

‘Hi, Dion.'

The man sitting next to her gave a start and a pair of panicky eyes met hers. He scoured the bus for a way out, but the aisle was packed with passengers. Then he seemed to concede defeat. He sighed and muttered to the steamed-up window. ‘What do you want?'

‘So you do recognise me?' she asked. ‘After all these years?'

He said nothing, but kept staring out of the window.

‘Who tipped you off? Was it Kaspar? Or Morten? Because your wife doesn't know, does she?'

‘Keep Henriette out of this.'

It sounded desperate, as though he was pleading with her. An Achilles heel. She needed one.

‘Why did you run off?'

He sighed again. Another circle of condensation spread across the window before evaporating, revealing a world in which a myriad cars and bicycles were transporting people to work. ‘None of your business.'

‘What was it that Kjeld Arne had on you boys? What did he use to blackmail you?'

‘Who's saying he was blackmailing me? You know nothing.'

His voice was hard and bitter, not the sensitive nursery school teacher at all. She thought of Astrid Agerbæk and knew she'd been right. Something had happened in the commune: something disturbing. She'd been far too infatuated and young and naïve to see or notice it. But it had been there and the commune-dwellers had carried it with them through later life, like a kind of testament from a misguided past where you covered for each other in the name of solidarity. Or for other reasons.

‘What were you supposed to hush up, Dion? What was so important to Kjeld Arne that he was prepared to blackmail his friends?'

‘I wasn't his bloody friend.'

‘So what were you? How did you end up in the commune in the first place?'

He shrugged, but didn't reply.

‘I spoke to Henriette on the telephone the other day,' she said. ‘She was really helpful.'

He turned to her and she could feel the muscles in his body pressing against her in the tight space. She could smell the rubber of his raincoat and hear its muted crinkle as he moved.

‘Don't you dare talk about Henriette. She's got nothing to do with this. She's much younger than me. She's—'

‘Innocent?' Dicte ventured.

His mouth opened and closed a few times before the words emerged. ‘Kaspar called and told me you'd probably turn up.'

‘And why is that so awful? Why don't you want to talk to me?'

He sank back into his seat. ‘Not here. I'm getting off at the next stop.'

His desperation was tangible. She sat tight, waiting, heard yet another prolonged sigh and sensed his body writhing with resistance.

‘Okay,' he said eventually. ‘Five o'clock. Meet me outside the nursery.'

She got up and finally let him past. ‘See you, Dion.'

A million different thoughts rattled about in her brain as she drove down to the newspaper office and parked in the yard. She hadn't expected openness from Dion. It was obvious there was something he wasn't prepared to share with her. Nevertheless, it might turn out to be an interesting meeting after all, because she might catch an inkling of what it was about. Inklings could take you a long way, she knew that from experience. You could act on them and wing it to the next stage.

She mulled over the meeting with Wagner and Strøm. The latter had his own inklings and she knew they were about her. He didn't trust her an inch. He questioned her motives and her openness. Fair enough. She deserved it. So why couldn't she just accept it?

She took the back stairs at lightning speed and came to the conclusion that Strøm's doubts about her irritated her doubly because Wagner had been present. He hadn't said anything, but he had his own ideas and she wondered whether he'd finally lose any confidence he had in her judgment now.

The office was, as always, like a train station at rush hour. Helle had just been out with a new freelance photographer, who was far better suited to her both in terms of age and appearance—well scrubbed and with a smile that was every mother-in-law's dream. Davidsen was on the phone with the tape recorder running as expressions like ‘freedom of speech', ‘tolerance,' and ‘human rights' flew through the air. Holger had his feet on the desk, the keyboard on his lap, and was hammering away with two fingers with a cup of coffee within easy reach. A lost-looking newspaper subscriber in a heavy woollen coat and robust walking shoes was waving a letter he wanted to hand in to whoever was in charge. At that very moment Bo clattered in from the street with rustling bags of fresh rolls and pastries.

‘Breakfast is served. Bread for the starving masses.'

‘Hello?'

The subscriber looked at Dicte as if she were the only fixed point in a turbulent sea. Not a million miles off the mark, she thought.

‘Yes? Can I help you?' They were always getting lost. It happened on a daily basis.

‘I want to cancel my subscription. I think the tone in the newspaper is becoming—'

‘You need to talk to the subscriptions department.' She said it a little too abruptly, but having to listen to Strøm's criticism was quite enough for one day. ‘There are only journalists here. And photographers,' she added as Bo walked past her with a plate of food.

The subscriber looked bewildered. She wondered if she should cheer him up and tell him that she understood his decision only too well. She would happily write a string of letters if she thought she could be free of newspapers forever, but it wouldn't help. He was lucky—he could keep living his life newspaper-free for as long as he liked just by spending 4.75 kroner on a stamp.

‘I can give you the address, but you can find it in the newspaper.' She gave him a free copy of the newspaper and circled the address of the subscription department with a pen. That was all it took. She received a smile of gratitude and he left, but she was pretty sure he'd change his mind and forget the letter. For some people reading a daily newspaper was a tradition, and he looked like the kind of person whose family had always read the same newspaper.

‘What's up? Did you find your runaway teacher?' Bo sat down on her desk with his pastry and, as always, rested his feet on the radiator.

She nodded and switched on the computer. He leaned to one side as she pulled the day's post out from underneath him. As she flicked through her mail she told him about her date with Dion on the bus. And then she stopped.

‘What a tosser,' Bo spluttered, his mouth full of flaky danish. ‘What? What is it?'

His voice seemed to come from far, far away and only half-penetrated her brain. She was staring at the envelope in her hand.

‘Shit,' Bo said. ‘Not again.'

She knew she ought take it straight down to Wagner and Strøm, but her hands were working independently of her brain and before she knew it the disc was in the computer.

The man was sitting up against a wall with his hands behind his back. A newspaper had been pinned to his chest. Next to him stood the hooded figure, as still as a statue. Again the voice had been distorted.

‘You have forty-eight hours. If no steps have been taken to implement our demands for tougher penalties and the reinstatement of the death penalty within this time, we will once again administer our own justice.'

Dicte stared at the man and recognised him. It was Anders Nikolajsen, the paedophile whose disappearance had just been reported in the newspaper.

The two TV screens suspended from the ceiling were showing football results and text TV. On the other side of the window, in the covered walkway of the shopping centre, people were milling past with prams and shopping trolleys, sometimes partly obscured as they passed the looped orange letters forming the word ‘Bistro' across the glass.

‘We might as well get it over with. I wear a scarf because I choose to. My parents aren't exactly thrilled about it.'

Nazleen challenged Rose with a stare that was undiminished by the clattering of cups and glasses around them as the neighbouring table was cleared by an overweight woman in a blue uniform. They were in Kvicklys Bistro in the Veri Center. Nazleen had suggested it.

‘It gives me a freedom that you don't have,' she went on, defending her scarf. ‘It frees the sexes so that we are able to speak without distractions.'

Rose wasn't entirely sure how to answer. Something inside her wanted to protest that it was a contradiction in itself, to cover up in order to experience a sense of freedom. But it probably wouldn't serve any purpose, and it certainly wouldn't help her cause, so in the end she contented herself with a nod, put sugar in her coffee and nibbled at her macaroon slice.

‘Aziz isn't keen on it, either,' Nazleen added.

It was only a nuance. Her tone of voice was at once affectionate and her eyes lit up even though her mouth wasn't smiling, at least not very much.

‘I suppose he can be a bit big brother-like at times,' Rose ventured. ‘I can imagine that.'

Now there was a little smile pulling her mouth upwards, making her seem more friendly. ‘He's very protective,' Nazleen said. ‘He feels responsible for me.'

‘He loves you very much,' Rose said, deciding to take a chance. ‘But he also says that you're stubborn and you can talk the hind leg off a donkey.'

For a fraction of a second Nazleen didn't know how to react. One eye twitched in anger but then her mouth quivered and her laughter bubbled up, free and liberating, merging with a nearby baby's whimpering and its mother's attempts to comfort it.

‘Oh, is that right? What else does he say?'

‘He says you don't like the fact that we're together.'

The laughter stopped. Embarrassment stole across Nazleen's face, framed by the white scarf that gave her an almost nun-like appearance. Expressions were easier to read like this, Rose thought. There was nothing to see but eyes, nose and mouth, and the impression was one of vulnerability more than anything else.

‘It's nothing personal. After all, I don't know you.'

‘Perhaps you might like to try?'

Nazleen's dark eyes cautiously explored the bistro with all its various signs announcing offers on roast pork and meatballs; three courses for ninety kroner. A hint of disgust crept across Nazleen's face, perhaps because of the menu, Rose thought, but she feared it had more to do with jealousy.

‘So why did you really want us to meet? Does Aziz know?' Nazleen asked.

Rose pushed the plate of cake away. She shook her head. ‘I'd rather he didn't.'

Nazleen's reaction was instant. She got up and straightened her clothes. ‘I can't go behind my brother's back. I think we should end this meeting now.'

Rose got up as well. Her hand shot out to grab Nazleen's long coat, but she was too afraid and in the end she retracted it. ‘I want to explain.'

‘There's nothing to explain.'

‘Yes, there is. Give me two minutes.'

Nazleen pushed the chair back under the table and turned to leave.

‘I was attacked,' Rose said. ‘By some of Mustapha's friends. The whole thing's coming to a head.'

The girl in the long coat stood very still, her back stiff, as if the sign saying ‘Please return your trays' was demanding her full attention.

‘I need to come up with a solution before Aziz does something he'll regret.'

Nazleen faced her. Her lips formed silent words. Alternating expressions flitted across the framed face.

‘I want to lift the curse,' Rose said. ‘There has to be a way, and I thought that women might be able to find it if men can't.'

It felt like an eternity. They faced each other, motionless. Nazleen scrutinised her face and Rose knew that she could now see the bruises under her make-up and the slightly swollen upper lip. She also saw the unspoken question in Nazleen's eyes, but couldn't muster the energy to answer her.

‘I didn't want Aziz to know, but he guessed, of course.'

‘Of course,' Nazleen said, pulling out the chair and sitting down again. ‘What is it you want me to do?'

Rose grabbed the opportunity. ‘You must have contacts in Gellerup … Girl friends. You used to live there.' She flung out a hand. ‘I'm looking for somewhere to start. Find out how we can defuse the whole situation.'

‘Defuse.' Nazleen seemed to be tasting the word. ‘Like a bomb, you mean.'

Rose shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Everything is so tense. I thought together we might be able to come up with a solution for an armistice.'

‘We're not talking about Israel and Palestine,' Nazleen pointed out in a mildly patronising tone.

It was preferable to anger, Rose thought. She noticed three foreign-looking mothers with prams entering the bistro and imagined the chaos some people had left behind to live in peaceful Denmark. ‘You could almost be forgiven for thinking it was,' she said. ‘And I think we need a peace broker.'

Nazleen sipped her Fanta. ‘I do know Mustapha's family,' she said. ‘He's got a sister called Ayse. She's a supermarket cashier and married to a half cousin from Turkey. We went to school together.'

‘I'd like to meet her,' Rose said.

Nazleen gave her a quizzical look. ‘What's on your mind? How can you even begin to imagine that she has any influence on Mustapha?'

Rose shrugged. ‘I'm new at this game. Perhaps I just happen to believe that if you reach out to someone, it might be a start.'

‘Reach out to people you regard as fundamentalists? Isn't that a bit far-fetched?' Her words resonated with the gulf between cultures and something even more insurmountable.

Rose took a deep breath. ‘You don't think there's any point?' she asked. ‘You don't think anything can be achieved?'

Nazleen didn't reply. Rose leaned forward and tried to catch her eye, but she looked away.

‘Mustapha's angry with Aziz. Perhaps a Dane would be, too, but most Danes wouldn't have reacted with threats of revenge and death,' she said to Nazleen. ‘What if you were given the task? If you had to defuse a situation so tense? Where would you start?'

Nazleen scrunched up her serviette, her fingers sinking into the paper. ‘Respect,' she said eventually. ‘I would start by showing respect.'

Rose hurt all over. The bruises were still tender, a reminder of what had happened in the park. They had made threats and one of them had been realised, and now she was supposed to show respect.

‘Respect.' She turned the word over in her mouth. It felt uncomfortable, and it also sounded hollow, but nevertheless she said:

‘So let's begin with that.'