Three Dog Night (16 page)

‘Who were those women?' he asked.

Elisabeth crunched a crisp.

‘No idea.'

Her face had assumed a neutral expression.

‘I think I recognised one of them,' he said. ‘The one with the pistol and all the piercings.'

‘Did you?' Her voice seemed indifferent.

He studied her.

‘You recognised her, too, didn't you?'

She shook her head vehemently.

‘Yes, you did. You've seen her before. What are the two of them up to?'

Elisabeth shrugged and her mighty bosom heaved.

‘I don't know. But Anja went with them willingly.'

He nodded. He had noticed that, too. Anja had given a hazy little smile before letting herself be pushed into the car.

‘I think she knew them,' he said. ‘Perhaps it was planned.'

They sat for a while in silence. He tried in vain to remember where he had seen the girl with the gun before, but every time he came close to an answer, it eluded him.

‘Ramses,' Elisabeth said at last, still munching.

‘What about him?'

She averted her eyes.

‘One of the women,' she mumbled. ‘I've seen her with him.'

He slung the ice pack on the coffee table in irritation.

‘How hard was that to say? Perhaps it'll help us find out what happened. To Stinger, I mean.'

She shrugged and sulked.

‘What could that bitch have to do with it?'

‘Did Stinger bring Ramses here? To your flat?'

‘What do you think? It's not like he had any other places he could take him.'

Her wounded gaze touched him and he saw the hurt in her eyes. Of course. She'd had a soft spot for Ramses, like so many other girls who had fallen for his macho looks.

‘He always had one skinny model after another in tow,' she went on, looking down. ‘But he was really keen on this one.'

‘What's her name?'

Elisabeth muttered something inaudible.

‘Sorry?'

‘Lily,' she said in a voice thick with contempt. ‘Lily Klein. And the name suited her, she really was klein. Small, that is.'

‘Lily Klein. Where have I seen her before?'

Again she shrugged. She looked sulky, hurt and sad, all at the same time, trapped in her enormous body, dreaming perhaps of being just as skinny and pretty as Lily.

‘How should I know?'

A
CCORDING TO
Y
ELLOW
Pages
, there was a Lily Klein living in Brammersgade in Århus.

He called Felix to check she'd eaten and ask how she was doing. She assured him she'd had some cheese on rye and drunk a cup of tea. The doctor had been round. He was satisfied with her progress, she thought.

‘I'd better move back to my own place.'

He put on his voice of authority.

‘You're staying right where you are.'

‘But I have a place of my own. I'm in your way.'

‘You're not in my way. Besides, you're looking after the dog.'

‘I could do something,' she said. ‘I could clean your house.'

He wasn't crazy about the idea of her in a smock with a headscarf, mop and bucket.

‘Save your strength. I'll be back soon. I've just got to do something.'

‘How's your friend?'

He told her about Stinger's condition. He didn't mention the incident with the four women after they had left the hospital, but when he had ended the call, he couldn't get it out of his head. Ramses' murder, the girl in the harbour, the attack on Stinger and now a rescue operation straight out of a Hollywood movie, in broad daylight outside Skejby Hospital. What – if anything – did all these things have to do with each other?

A big part of him screamed forget it, concentrate on your own life. But Stinger was in a coma in hospital. Who had attacked him? And why? The key had to be the treasure hunt he and Ramses were planning. And Lily Klein had known Ramses.

He drove to the address in Brammersgade and rang the bell. A plump, grey-haired woman opened the door wearing an apron over a floral dress and a long cardigan on top of that. Peter reckoned she must have been around seventy.

‘Could I talk to Lily Klein?'

‘She's moved. She left months ago.'

‘Do you know where she went?'

The woman shook her head. She smelled of food and the same smell was wafting through the half-open door – fried onions and beefburgers, he guessed.

Peter put on a smile, and it was easy to do. The woman seemed friendly enough; there was something wise and yet playful in her eyes.

‘You wouldn't happen to be the owner of this building, would you, Madam?'

It might have been a cheap trick to address her as madam, but showing a bit of respect never did any harm.

She buttoned up the cardigan over her apron to protect herself from the cold.

‘Come in,' she said.

Peter entered the hall. The door closed on the snow blowing down the street. She led the way up to her door.

‘I was born in this house. On the second floor. My family has owned it for decades.'

She tilted her head and patted the wall. ‘If walls could talk, eh? Oh, the stories they could tell. This house has seen a little of everything, including a World War. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?'

‘Fascinating,' Peter said, and he meant it. He had often had the same thought himself. Houses. They had a life of their own, and the walls absorbed the lives and the stories that were played out within them.

The woman pointed up the stairs.

‘She lived up there, Lily did. The attic room. The room hasn't been rented out yet.'

‘I don't suppose I could have a look, could I?'

She looked him up and down.

‘You don't look like someone in need of a room. Are you a private detective or the police?'

He smiled.

‘Why would you think that?'

‘I saw her boyfriend's photo in the paper.'

‘You should be a detective,' Peter said. ‘And, yes, Ramses said he'd left something for me here.'

‘Here?'

She examined him carefully, and at length reached inside the door, took a key from the cupboard and led him upstairs. At the top, she opened the door to a sparsely furnished room with sloping walls and stripy blue wallpaper.

‘See for yourself. Neither of them left anything behind. No information. I've got some post lying around, but that's addressed to her. What did you expect?'

He decided honesty was the best policy.

‘Actually I was hoping to talk to her. One of Ramses' friends has just been beaten up.'

She shuddered.

‘So much violence. Will it never end?'

He touched his neck, where Flat Nose had squeezed, and thought about all the punches and kicks he had dished out himself.

‘What was she like?' he asked, scanning the room.

‘Lily? Difficult to work out. Clever girl. Always had a ready answer. Pretty, too. And helpful. But what she was doing mixing with that lot God only knows.'

‘Was there anyone apart from Ramses?'

He knelt down and looked under the bed as he spoke. Further back, he saw a small shiny object.

‘A few women. Rough-looking types with nose, mouth and eyebrow piercings. Just like Lily.'

He stretched his arm, but couldn't quite reach. He got up and pulled the bed out. Among all the dust bunnies there was indeed an object. He grabbed it and held it up.

‘Oh, did she leave that here?' the old lady said. ‘I don't suppose she'll be back for it.'

It was an earring, silver as far as he could judge. In the shape of a flower. A fleur-de-lis.

‘You keep it. You can always give it to her when you find her.'

F
ELIX HAD FALLEN
asleep again in the late afternoon after a day of minute but nonetheless notable progress: a slice of buttered toast, some porridge oats with full-fat milk, a shower on wobbly legs and a short walk in the frost, well wrapped up in a Puffa jacket, with the dog running around. Finally the tiredness overcame her and she fell asleep again.

It was dark outside; she awoke to the sound of grinding organ tones and an oppressive melancholy, like a weight on her chest. For a moment she thought Peter had come home and was playing music on the CD player.

Then she realised the organ was playing inside her head.

She wanted to sit up, but it was an unequal struggle, so she gave up and fell back on to the pillow. Her eyes and her head ached, and the ceiling was a blur. The weight on her chest spread to every nook and cranny of her body; a sob burst forth from deep inside and engulfed her.

Crying was both a curse and a liberation. She realised it was the music that was causing her reaction. The organ notes wound themselves in and out of her insides, sending tentacles to the places where her grief lay encapsulated. The music teased out, penetrated and opened up the hardness in her, and the magnitude of her loss suddenly cut through her with merciless force.

She struggled into a sitting position, racked with sobs.

‘Maria.'

She said the name and tasted it again. She called out, knowing full well there would be no reply: ‘Maria? Sweet Maria …'

The organ ground on inside her head. She suddenly remembered they had played this tune at the funeral. Now the words came back: ‘Sleep, my child, sleep for ever more.'

How could she have forgotten? How could she have repressed this final farewell, the sense of the bottomless pit in which she found herself? How could she have mislaid the memory of two coffins, one big, one small, side by side in a church filled with flowers, the suffocating scent?

Maria. Maria. Maria.

How could she ever have gone on living without Maria? How could she have drawn breath without constantly thinking about Maria, without grieving, despairing and picturing her daughter's cheery face, Maria's body in a close embrace with her own?

She knew the rational answer. Her memory had protected her after the crash. She had woken up at the hospital, her memory wiped clean, and not even the funeral or being told about it all could evoke feelings or memories. Her brain had wrapped itself around a few days of her life. But now they were seeping out. From the day they found Ramses at the foot of the cliff they had begun to trickle and now they were in full flow. Grief contorted her insides and sent her into a maelstrom of emotion. It threatened to crush her.

A high-pitched whine intruded into the music, forcing its way through. The dog was staring at her, bewildered. She put out a hand, and it rested its big head on her knee. The touch of a living being comforted her.

Some time later she heard a car arrive, and Peter entered carrying shopping bags and whistling. The whistle froze on his lips when he saw her on the sofa, her body convulsed with sobs and the dog's head in her lap.

‘What's happened?'

She dried her eyes, but the tears kept flowing. It was like a flood she couldn't stop. He sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.

‘It's silly,' she hiccupped. ‘It won't do any good.'

‘Of course it will.'

‘She's gone. Maria. She's not coming back.'

‘But it feels good to remember her, doesn't it?'

He was right. How could he know?

They sat in silence for a long time. Slowly her crying subsided. He held her hand. He gave her warmth, and it felt good to be with someone. She had been alone for so long.

‘I remembered the funeral,' she said. ‘The hymns, the flowers, the coffins and …'

She stopped.

‘You can do it,' he said.

She took a deep breath.

‘It was August. Late summer. Five months ago.'

Suddenly the words flowed. She told him about Maria. She told him what it had been like to have a daughter, about the ties that bound them tighter and tighter, ties she never thought could have existed between two people. Unending love. The precious moments of pure happiness.

She told him about the life she had lived. About Erik. About the boat he had named
Felix
. About their first meeting and her desperate need for financial security, which meant she never questioned the wealth that became a part of their lives. She talked about his affairs. But most of all she talked about the child she had lost. Maria, lying in the small white coffin while the organ played ‘Sleep, my child, sleep for ever more.'

He got up a little later. He put away the shopping, made her a cup of tea, came back and sat down.

‘Who organised the funeral?' he asked. ‘Were you involved?'

She shook her head.

‘Erik's secretary and my parents arranged everything. I was ill. I was in a coma for I don't know how long and then I was in a wheelchair.'

‘Was Ramses there? At the funeral?'

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Why would he be?'

‘Because he knew Erik?'

‘I don't think they were friends.'

‘Why don't you think so?'

‘Ramses wasn't Erik's type. I think it was about something else.'

‘Money?'

‘Possibly. Probably.'

She studied him as he sat there, leaning back, legs apart, jeans, a coarse wool jumper puckered up, still wearing boots. What was the real reason he was doing so much for her? Why was he so keen to help?

As though he had read her mind, he said: ‘I'm on your side, Felix. I'm not trying to hurt you.'

‘But you're also using me.'

She felt ashamed, but not enough to stop herself. ‘My story's your story, too. Or, at least, some of it is.'

He shrugged.

‘Perhaps.'

She noticed that the pain lessened when she concentrated on him, on the colour of his hair and its composition – it was like looking at a million grains of sand on the beach, and together they made a whole – on his expression, a smile, close behind the seriousness, ready to jump in.