Next of Kin (29 page)

Two semi-trailers were parked and waiting in front of the waste silo. In a second or two it will be their turn, he was thinking. In a second or two they'll receive a sign, and they'll drive up to the edge, open the rear flap and unload their many tonnes of rubbish into the vast amounts already there. Then the grabs will take over. The two powerful iron claws, each weighing six tonnes, were able to lift approximately their own weight in one load. Like gigantic hands they would start kneading the waste in order to break it down into a consistency that would burn evenly in the incinerator. Unwieldy objects were put to one side and the grabs would come for them next, to dump them into the mincer where they would be chopped into smaller pieces.

Ole Madsen could just see the grabs working from where he was sitting in his car. They hung from thick steel wires and were operated by two men from a control room with a view over the silo, playing God with their levers. He'd done his research; at first wondering whether ending up in a waste silo and then being burnt at a temperature of 1150 degrees Celsius was a worthy death for a murderer. The he'd tried to work out how much Lars Emil Andersen weighed. Maybe around sixty kilos, not much more. After three hours in the oven a hundred kilos of refuse would be scraped out as twenty kilos of ash. There wouldn't be much left of Andersen after his brief adventure. On the other hand, his family could console themselves with the thought that after three years on a slag heap he would probably end up as motorway infill and ease the path for their magnificent Volvo.

Not that they would ever find out.

Ole snatched a last glance at the silo and the grabs, then started his car and drove down to the recycling section. He had ultimately rejected the oven idea when he was surfing on the net and came across the story of a torso that had turned up in the incinerator in Amager. Even after hours in those high temperatures the chance was there would be identifiable remains. Which was no good, of course. Better to revert to using hands and squeezing hard. Or perhaps a car jack, he thought. In a tight spot, there was always that.

He switched on the radio as he circled around the recycling area and looked at his watch. In five minutes they finished work and Andersen would, as always, stand and wait for his father's Volvo. But he would have to wait a long time today. The Volvo was outside his father's workplace with slashed tyres. But perhaps he already knew that, Ole thought. Perhaps the father had already rung him on his mobile and explained the situation. Perhaps the son had asked to leave work early to catch a bus. That would be no good.

He turned the car around and drove back the way he had come.

There was no one at the recycling plant this late in the day. However, the day's yield was piled high in containers labelled ‘Light Combustible', and huge piles of garden refuse were spread across the area opposite. He parked and got out with the bags of bottles he had put in his car that afternoon. Slowly he dropped the bottles, one by one, into the bottle bank while keeping an eye on the workmen who were now leaving the shed dressed in casual clothes.

Andersen was the last to leave. He looked so young. For a second, a sharp pain shot through Ole's brain. Extinguishing a young life before it had even unfolded. Never knowing how that life might have developed. Bringing a sudden end to all those dreams.

He forced away the pang of conscience by thinking about Nanna. He conjured up her image and the sound of her voice, and the hatred was re-kindled.

‘You look like someone who needs a lift.' He said it in a calm, nonchalant tone of voice, just as he had planned, and the boy gave a nod of gratitude.

‘My father was supposed to pick me up, but he was having some bother with his car. Where are you going?'

‘I live in Højbjerg. I was just getting rid of some bottles for my sister.'

The boy smiled, but there was sorrow in his eyes, they had no real sheen. ‘Højbjerg? I live there, too. Where in Højbjerg?'

‘Ildervej,' Ole lied.

‘Funny. I live in Egernvej. I'd love a lift if that's okay with you.'

‘Of course.'

Ole opened the car door for him, promising himself that he wouldn't look at the boy's smile or the sad affability in his eyes. Perhaps he should have brought a hood he could have pulled over the boy's face.

He switched on the ignition and drove from the site, leaving the incinerator with its sea-green façade and the smoking chimney behind them. He indicated right and, as he expected, his passenger protested.

‘Don't you go via Randersvej?'

Ole shrugged. ‘Old habit. I think this route is more scenic—via Kasted, Brendstrup and Herredsvej. From there I pick up the outer ring road.'

That sounded pretty reassuring, he thought. The boy didn't ask any more questions and seemed to relax. To help the atmosphere along, he put on the radio. A throbbing beat attuned itself to his pulse, and his passenger began to tap his foot.

‘Thank you. That was a stroke of luck,' Lars said. He was only nineteen and probably hadn't even started shaving yet. ‘I'll be back in time for the meatballs, then.'

‘Meatballs?'

He could hear the boy's smile. ‘My mother. She makes the best meatballs. It's my birthday today so I chose the menu. Meatballs and ice cream with strawberry sauce.'

Birthday. Ole's insides crumpled like someone screwing up a ball of paper.

‘What do you do when it's not your birthday? Do you go out on the town with pals?' he asked.

The boy looked out of the window. They had reached Søftenvej now and Ole would soon turn off for Kasted.

‘Not much any more,' he mumbled. ‘Just now and then.'

‘What do you do, when you're out, I mean?'

He could sense the boy shrugging his shoulders. ‘Nothing in particular. Go to clubs. The movies. That sort of thing.'

Ole waited for details, but nothing came so he just drove on, his pulse throbbing to the music. The need to make a decision was bearing down on him. Where should he do it? Should it be today? Where could he stop? There always seemed to be something that made him procrastinate. As though every little movement of a car, a bike or a cow in a field could upset the balance. He was beginning to perspire. One hand groped to open the window for fresh air.

‘Watch out!'

The deer emerged without any warning and sprang across the road in front of them. Ole braked. The car went into a skid. An oncoming car narrowly managed to miss them as they slid to a stop on the other side of the road.

‘You'll have to reverse,' the boy said nervously. ‘A car might come.'

Ole noted that his reactions were slow, but he couldn't help it. The engine had gone dead.

‘Hurry. This could turn out nasty.'

The boy had really begun to panic now. He was fumbling with his seat belt and sniffling quietly.

‘I want to get out. Let me out.'

‘Take it easy,' Ole muttered. ‘It'll be fine.' He started the engine, found reverse and eased the car back onto the road, but in the few seconds that had passed something had shifted or had been shaken up.

He set off again, searching for the hatred, but couldn't locate it. From the corner of his eye he looked at the boy, who was panting now, almost hyperventilating.

‘Take a couple of deep breaths,' he heard himself say in his psychologist's voice. ‘Nice and easy does it.'

It helped. He could hear the boy's breathing becoming calmer. They were a couple of hundred metres down the road when the boy spoke.

‘I ran over a girl. She died.'

Ole wanted to speak, but couldn't.

‘I'd been drinking because my girlfriend had split up with me. I took a girl's life just because I was upset about Anja.' He shook his head. ‘What a mess.'

Ole accelerated. He didn't want to hear. Forgiveness was against nature, but it hung so enticingly in front of his nose, tempting him with the prospect of peace. Somewhere he could hear Nanna's voice, the words Maibritt had told him about: ‘It's his way of saying goodbye. He's made like that. He has to get it out of his system.'

When he finally arrived in Egernvej, Lars got out of the car with a tentative smile.

‘I'm sorry I panicked. Thank you for the lift. Just in time for the meatballs,' he said, waving him off as though he had found a new friend.

When Ole got home, the door was unlocked and he walked straight in. Maibritt had gone to a meeting with her publisher in Copenhagen, but the cleaning lady, Kiki Jensen, had a key and had let herself in. She must have been close to finishing for today.

Obviously she hadn't heard him. He had put out an envelope with the money in it and a message that he wouldn't be back until late.

When he found her she was sitting in his office with the computer switched on. Strong fingers pounded on the keyboard and, spread out over the table, he recognised cuttings of the accident and Nanna's death that he'd kept hidden in a drawer.

‘What the hell are you doing?'

It didn't immediately click, what was going on. Her face turned towards him and he saw a face drained of emotion, blank.

‘I'm sorry,' she said and stood up. ‘I only wanted to send an email and no one was at home.'

‘And so you thought you could just use my computer without asking,' he added. ‘What is it you're doing? With my papers? All this?' He pointed.

She looked him in the eye as she forced her way past him. ‘Did you do it then?' she asked on her way out.

‘Do what?' He followed her. ‘What the hell do you mean? Who are you? I can ring the police, you know.'

She didn't respond. He couldn't detain her by force.

‘You're fired! Don't come back.' He could hear how ridiculous it sounded.

‘You haven't got the guts, have you!' She had turned round now. She stood watching him with her vacant eyes. ‘I should have known,' she muttered.

It was only when she slammed the door that he understood.

‘She just turned up, man. Said she needed somewhere to crash for a couple of nights. I didn't know she was tied up in all this. In the news stuff, I mean.'

Kaspar Gefion Friis looked at them with eyes that seemed to have trouble focusing.

‘Who contacted you?' Dicte asked.

They followed him down to the cellar. Bo looked at her and she could read his question: Where on earth did you dig this one up? But she could see beyond the chains, ear-rings, rivets and leather. All she saw was a pathetic creature, but one at least with a resemblance of a conscience.

‘Dion rang,' Kaspar said on his way down the stairs. ‘And then I realised it could be her and that she might have this crazy idea of taking her revenge for what happened in those days.'

‘And you were frightened it would be your turn next? Yours and Dion's and Morten's? And you were wondering who she would do first?'

He didn't answer, but his stooped back radiated uncertainty, as though it wouldn't take much to snap him.

‘I felt sorry for her,' he sniffled as he opened up the another room in the cellar, one she hadn't seen on her first visit. Unlike Kaspar's space, this one was spartan with only a single bed, a table and a chair. The wall was rough and unpainted. A single glance was enough to recognise the table the black-clad figure had been sitting next to in the second film, when the manifesto was read out. The dark cloth in the background was gone, but Dicte was still confident she was right. Kirsten Husum had been here. Kirsten Husum was the villain of the piece, and had beheaded her own brother.

‘Where is she now? When did she leave? Did she have a car? What make?'

Bo fired off questions. She wanted to reach out a hand and say he should count to ten. But he wasn't in the mood to be patient with an old junkie with gaps in his memory.

Kaspar Friis cast panic-stricken eyes around the room. ‘Lemme out,' he burbled, backing out and closing the door with creaky hinges. ‘I need a bloody fix.'

They followed him back into his music room. With difficulty he scrambled up onto his chair and went through his pockets. He pulled out a joint, flicked the fluff off it, quickly lit up and sucked in greedily. Then he leaned his head back and blew sweet smoke up at the ceiling. Perhaps she was imagining it, but it seemed to Dicte that Bo's nostrils were quivering and he was inhaling as much of the smoke as he could. She had asked him to come along because she had shuddered at the thought of another tour of Kaspar's cellar, but Bo wasn't the greatest psychologist in the world and she decided to take over the questioning.

‘When was all this? Can you remember, Kaspar?'

He moved his head sideways. ‘I wasn't feeling too good that day. She just stood there in the doorway. Of course, I didn't recognise her but then …' He breathed in through the joint. His mind seemed to be all over the place, no longer able to focus on one thing at a time.

‘Did she have a car?'

He nodded. ‘A white something or other.'

‘You can't recall the make?' Bo asked.

Kaspar hunched his shoulders.‘A car is a car, I reckon. As long as it goes.'

‘Was it big or small?' Dicte searched for ways to describe cars. ‘Did it have four doors? Was it a van?'

Kaspar studied her and for the first time a gleam of recognition lit up his eyes. She could almost hear the cogs in his brain engaging and clicking into place.

‘It was a van,' he said, sounding grateful. ‘That's what it was. A Toyota HiAce.' Kaspar's sudden recollection took them all by surprise—perhaps it had been jolted by the joint that had now shrunk to a stump.

‘She was here for a couple of days. And then she was gone.'

There were three women with scarves and seven without in the flat in Gellerup.

On the coffee table in front of them at least six kinds of home-made cake fought for space on the lace tablecloth: sweet cakes of all shapes and colours, and savoury pastries with meat and cheese fillings that sent conflicting aromas out into the room. The coffee was strong and served in small glasses as the sun shone through the large windows, making the women's skin glow. Their brown eyes sparkled and smiled. They were chatting even before they had sat down on the soft sofa and chairs around the coffee table.

‘So how are you, Aysenur? And the family? How is little Semse?'

‘Better, thank you,' replied a young woman, taking a mouthful of cake. ‘After she'd kept us awake for three nights, her tooth finally came through. But she's got more on the way so we have tough times ahead.'

‘Are you still off work?'

The young woman nodded. Rose guessed she had to be somewhere in her mid-twenties.

‘But I'm going back in two months' time. I'm really looking forward to it and my mother-in-law will look after Semse, so that's all taken care of.'

They spoke in Danish. Children and families and everyday life were the topics discussed at a Gün, as Nazleen had explained. Having a Gün was, as she had presented it to Rose, the way city women socialised in Turkey. They took turns to meet at each other's houses. The hostess of the week would make sure there were cakes and börek, and during the couple of hours the get-together lasted all sorts of topics were discussed.

Rose watched the women as they talked. She'd been told that one woman only wore a scarf because she had made a pilgrimage to Mecca the previous year and that normally she didn't cover up. A few strands of hair peeked out from under her scarf and this indicated that she was a modern woman. Only one of the women—apart from Nazleen—was covered according to the rules of modesty so that no hair could be seen at all. It was Ayse, Mustapha's sister. Rose had been told that it wouldn't be possible for her and Ayse to meet alone. But they could meet at a Gün. This was acceptable and Rose would have to snatch a conversation with her.

Ayse sat very still in a corner, following the conversation closely which, in Rose's honour, had been steered in the direction of arranged marriages. Nazleen had told them beforehand that Rose had to write an essay on the subject. ‘That gives you a genuine reason for being curious,' Nazleen had told her. ‘We're happy to share our thoughts and feelings on a range of subjects, and we know that Danish girls don't understand arranged marriages and confuse them with forced marriages.'

As the women warmed to the topic, they became more animated, gesturing, laughing and even shouting out loud. Everyone was keen to give their opinion, it seemed to Rose. Everyone except Ayse, who continued to sit very still and listen. The Gün was being hosted by Ayse's cousin, Nuray. That was why it had been acceptable for Rose to attend, Nazleen had explained.

‘Danes tend to think that we're forced to marry certain men, but that's rare these days,' explained Nuray who, according to Nazleen, was married to a Turkish man who had grown up in Denmark. They had two little girls. ‘That's more a thing of the past. Now you can make sure they don't get a visa too quickly and are sent back to Turkey.'

This resulted in a fit of giggles all around the table.

‘And if Turkish men really do come here to get married then they are under the wife's thumb because she's grown up here and she knows how life in Denmark works,' said the woman who had been to Mecca.

‘It's best to find your husband among the Turks already here,' said one of the others, whose name Rose had forgotten. ‘Then they know the situation and that makes things less complicated.'

The discussion continued for a while; they debated marriages between Christians and Muslims, and whether marriages between Turks and Arabs might be preferable because Arab culture is far closer to Turkish culture. Another woman, whom Rose had been told was married to a Dane, talked about older women's reactions when they found out about her.

‘They feel so sorry for me. They can't understand it because I'm not that ugly,' she laughed. ‘They think no men in Turkey wanted me.'

Cakes were passed round and more coffee was served. Every now and then the women would switch to Turkish and started talking in smaller groups. Rose leaned forward and caught Ayse's eyes.

‘Nazleen tells me you're Mustapha's sister.'

She nodded, but said nothing, which spurred Rose to go on. She would have to force the pace.

‘I know that you're not mixed up in this in any way, but Aziz and I would like to see if we could resolve our feud.'

Still no reaction. But Ayse's eyes were watching her attentively.

Under the cover of the women's chatting and laughter, Rose said, ‘I wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't think that I had something to offer. Something that might change the way Mustapha views the situation. I'd like to meet him.'

Ayse's gaze was now quizzical. Finally her lips moved as if limbering up to speak. Rose leaned even further forward to catch what she said.

‘Mustapha's in hospital. He fell down some stairs and has concussion and a broken arm.'

Rose wanted to ask how such an accident could happen, but something held her back. ‘Which hospital is he in?'

Ayse's eyes averted hers, focusing instead on her delicate hands in her lap, agleam with gold rings. ‘I can't tell you that just now.'

Rose found an inner strength. It was pointless giving up. Not now. Especially not now. ‘Where, Ayse? It might be a matter of life and death. You have to believe me.'

In Ayse's eyes doubt battled with pride and the fear of reprisals. For a long time she sat forming the words with her lips until the answer finally came.