Frost and Ashes (Daniel Trokics Series Book 2) Page 12

  Lisa poured sugar into her cappuccino and watched it disappear into the foam. She stretched her legs out under the table and leaned back in the chair. "So, you work alone?"

  "No, there are twelve of us in the firm, at the moment. Many of us are ex-policemen with experience in security; some are actual bodyguards we headhunt from the special forces. We take on all types of assignments. Advising a woman with an ex-boyfriend harassing her, for instance, or an actor being stalked by a fan. A few times, we’ve helped politicians deal with long-term harassment. There are various types of stalkers, but essentially we treat them the same way."

  "Can you make them stop? Normally, we issue a restraining order, but I have to admit it's not often effective."

  "Usually, it's the victim's behavior we have to work on. Restraining orders can, at worst, poison the situation by provoking a stalker. And you can’t talk sense into these people; they're obsessed. We're not bodyguards in the traditional sense. We don't provide protection around the clock, so it's all about teaching her to take care of herself. I say 'her.' Statistics indicate that women are usually the victims. It’s important she learns basic security measures. Changing phone numbers, a course in self-defense, handling mail, moving one or more times."

  "I feel sorry for these women. They end up living the life of a victim."

  "Yes, and many of them also dig their heels in and refuse to change their lives because of a stalker. It's our job to make them realize they must. Anything else is simply too dangerous. Unfortunately, we’re often called in late, after the stalker has already become an enormous burden. It would help if we were brought in earlier, to prevent situations from getting out of hand."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, for example, many of these women believe they can reason with the man, explain things. But that doesn't work because the stalker thrives on the attention. It’s a sign to him that they're becoming closer. You tell him 'no' one time, that's all. After that, you never give him one single morsel of attention again. Many of them are seriously disturbed; they believe they’re in a relationship with the victim, that the victim loves them. Our rule of thumb is, the less of a romantic relationship before the stalking begins, the loonier they are."

  "Aren't you afraid something will happen to one of your clients?" Lisa said.

  "You can bloody well believe I am. You get to know these people. It becomes personal. But we're good at what we do. How about you? You've also made a move from the special unit in Copenhagen to homicide in Århus, I hear?"

  "I couldn't take it anymore. Especially spending so much time on the cases, and then seeing the pedophiles get off with these ridiculously light sentences."

  "Yes, the work does do something to people." His eyes went blank.

  Lisa checked her watch. It was about time for the first seminar to begin.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Mathias Riise stood out in the cold behind Skellegården where the terrace ended and smoked a joint. Even though it was the middle of the day, the light over in the main building was on. Five men on the bottom floor were playing cards. Clouds of smoke hung like smog under the symmetrical designer lamps and voices buzzed from behind the old windows. All kinds of people came over there, though mostly men. They only made a lot of noise on weekends, when they started drinking after a game. Mathias knew the constable had been there several times, but apparently, nothing had been done about it. Lukas's father was a regular in the poker games, too.

  He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and held it a few seconds, so the weed could do its work. Soon, he’d be sixteen, and he was going to find a job and save up for an apartment. Maybe in Odense or Copenhagen. The sooner he got away from this hole, the better. Away from Mårslet, away from his mother. He was looking forward to the day when he'd never see her again. All the shame and lies, all the secrecy would vanish into a shadowy fog in the back of his memory. And he had survived. Maybe his younger siblings would too.

  Then, he smelled it. Mathias had a sharp sense of smell, and odors stood out even more when he smoked weed. He could smell the snow on the street over the hedge. Dirty snow, from car exhaust and the brown sand the district workers spread out. But there was something else. From a fire. Nobody had campfires that time of year. And hardly anyone grilled outside. He glanced around the yard; something was sticking up in the snow at the other end. The crusty snow crackled as he walked over to check it out. Could Lukas have burned himself here? Then he remembered his mother had been out there a week earlier with some sort of clothing on the end of a stick. Did she burn it? And what was it? He scraped a layer of snow off with his foot and peered down at what was left: sooty pieces of cloth, all different colors, with charred edges. He noticed the opening on a light blue piece of material. The unburned remains of Frederick's underpants. Why had she burned them? The answer hit him like a slap in the face. His little brother was growing up too, and the signs of adolescence had angered her.

  He put out the joint and walked back in. His mother stood with a glass of wine, looking over at the neighbor's house where a young, single mother lived. It was one of her favorite hobbies nowadays; the young mother had been involved last year with a skinny guy from Kosovo living in a refugee camp. Despite his emotional problems, he'd been sent back last fall. Mathias's mother apparently thought the boyfriend had somehow made his way back to Denmark and was in the country illegally. Yesterday, she’d even wondered out loud if the Kosovo Albanian could have something to do with Lukas's death.

  Up in his room, he returned to what had been on his mind the last few days: the letter. He'd ripped it into a thousand pieces and thrown it in the trash, yet the words stood out as clear to him as if they'd been chiseled into the wall. I know what you did. I know your secret. Who had written the letter, and what did he or she know?

  Chapter Thirty

  Stefan stared blankly at the blackboard. The sun shone in low through the window; thin clouds of chalk dust hung in the air. Susanne, their math teacher, had filled the blackboard with fractions and equations, and he understood exactly zero of it. They reminded him of mysterious potions from a magic book. The teacher was in her early 30s, with short blond hair that fell over her ears. If he lifted her hair up, he'd see a missing earlobe. Her old horse, Skyggefaxe, bit it off when she was little, she'd told the class. Stefan liked Susanne; she didn't get mad at him, even though sometimes she had to explain things three times before he understood. Or at least pretended he did.

  He was wondering now if he should tell her. Before what happened to Lukas, squealing to a teacher about what they'd done would never even have crossed his mind. The grown-ups were all saying there must be a pedophile in town. But what if it wasn't true? What if they were wrong? On the other hand, why should he care? On the morning of the day after Lukas was found, the school principal had held a memorial service and given a short speech, and the teachers had spent a lot of time answering the scared kids' questions to calm them down. And everybody was talking about it out in the schoolyard. No more snowball fights. Everybody wondered how this could happen in Mårslet.

  * * *

  "Earth to Stefan. Wake up."

  Several in the class laughed. Somebody dropped a pencil, and a chair scraped across the floor.

  Stefan glanced around and realized Susanne had said something to him, but he hadn't heard a single word. Had she asked him something? About the equations?

  "What?"

  "Can you solve the problem I've written up on the board?"

  He stared at the numbers on the blackboard. He didn't have a clue. "No."

  "Okay, is there anyone else who can?"

  While moving on to the next victim, she sent him an odd look. Stefan drew a star on the desk with his pencil and etched it in with his compass. The girl who sat next to him, Liv, kicked his shin. It wasn't like Susanne to let him off so easily. Or at least not to try to guide him through it. She'd sensed something. But should he tell her? Squeal, which meant exposing himself too? What would she
think about him? And wouldn't she have to tell the other teachers? Then the whole school would know. And, of course, they'd tell his mother.

  They had been in an internet club. Anyway, that's what they called it. He and Tobias had gone too far. They'd hit her. And took pictures. It was a miracle the girl hadn't told on them, but then, Tobias had threatened her, really threatened her. But the truth was going to come out.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Vanddragen, the Water Dragon, had a new shape now from all the snow, Trokic noticed as he crossed Store Torv. The square's notorious sculpture, created by Elisabeth Toubro, had caused tempers to flare for many years. Members of the city council and other luminaries in the community claimed the statue was a blight on the square and demanded it be removed. The estimated cost of moving the artwork had, however, silenced most of the critics. Trokic, who had practically no understanding of art and less interest in it, had anyway gotten used to the scandal-ridden piece and did not like changes.

  He looked in the window of the bookstore on the square and stopped at the sight of black hair at the counter. Sidsel. He felt a stab of irritation; he didn't like being disturbed by beautiful women during a case, and he was about to hurry away when she walked out of the store.

  "So, has the case led you back to civilization?"

  She stuck into her bag the plastic sack holding a book and brought out her gloves in the same movement.

  "I needed some fresh air and lunch somewhere other than the station."

  He could hardly believe what he said next. "Would you like to have lunch with me over at Café Jorden? You could tell me a little bit about Mårslet."

  "That sounds nice."

  * * *

  Incubus Dig played in the background. A slow, heartfelt number full of desire and a longing to escape loneliness. Lots of guitar. Intense, one of the few passionate pieces of music that in some demonic way got to him physically, right in the gut. It made him think of his last wrecked relationship. A pretty lawyer with short blonde hair, a page cut. Big green eyes. He'd met her at the courthouse one warm, breezy August morning. Three months and a million tears later, she gave him up with an unfair reference to Incubus: sure, he had deep emotions, but apparently, he was looking for someone who could dig him out of his self-imposed isolation. It went without saying that she was not that someone. He felt a measure of regret in giving up her pleasant company; she had a natural physical quality–comfortable in her skin?–that led her to give of herself eagerly and enthusiastically. But he'd quickly realized he couldn't give her the degree of intimacy she was after. And on her way out, a second before she slammed the door behind her, she had even plagiarized the title of an Incubus number by yelling, "Goodbye. Nice to know you."

  * * *

  Something about the woman sitting across from him piqued his curiosity. Apparently, she was single, but he was getting no signals from her. Normally, a woman would at least show a sparkle in her eye, or in some way draw attention to her femininity. Not that it destroyed his ego that she wasn't showing more than a normal human interest. And really, so soon after his debacle with the lawyer, maybe it was for the best. And yet. Maybe there was something she hadn't told him. An unhappy love affair. Or she might not want a man limiting her in any way. Relationships seriously complicate life, no doubt about that. Of course, she might prefer women; she could be a lesbian or bisexual. Or whatever they all were called. He stole looks at her face, glanced down at the pair of shapely bulges in her black cotton blouse. He could just ask her. At least he could if he was the type who could make himself do it.

  Instead, he asked, "How's the thesis going?"

  "I'm waiting for a major breakthrough. The one that's about to fall out of the sky."

  The waitress arrived and placed a club sandwich in front of Trokic. Sidsel made room for the large salad she'd ordered.

  "What made you choose marine archaeology? Isn't it exciting enough to dig around on dry land?"

  "It is, and I will once in a while. Local excavations are especially interesting. Every time there's new construction or digging, for whatever reason, something fascinating shows up. Like when they planted trees next to Our Lady's Church when they found the grave of a child, two or three years old, who died of rickets."

  "And when they dug down by the river?"

  "Yes, when they exposed the bed they found dikes and earthworks and something that might have been part of the harbor. What's most fascinating is when we discover relics from the Viking Age. Dugouts for example. It feels like time becomes a part of you, gets inside of you. Or the exact opposite, that time disappears. The history of the city is literally at your feet."

  "In a way, you could say we both dig into the past." Trokic pushed the remains of his sandwich around on his plate.

  "And find clues." She smiled, and for the first time, she had a playful look in her eye. "Speaking of clues, how's it going with the investigation?"

  "It could be going better."

  "It's a bit like history repeating itself, don't you think?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "A boy found in a creek, murdered."

  "I'm not following you."

  Sidsel laid her fork down and wiped her mouth with a napkin. "It was a long time ago. A boy was found in the creek."

  "Giber Creek?"

  "Yes."

  She glanced around at the red walls of the café, the many French posters. "It was back in the early 70s, I think. I don't know precisely when. It turned out the poor boy took his own life, according to the police. He was only eleven, awfully young to end it all. It makes you wonder. It was before I was born, but my mother told me all about it."

  "I haven't heard about this. Who was the boy?"

  "I can't recall his name. Something beginning with an E."

  She looked off into the distance, trying to remember. "Ejvind, or Eigil, I think. Anyway, at first, they treated it as a suspicious death, as I understand it. There was a lot of gossip in town. Sort of like how it is now. People were up in arms. I remember Mom telling me the parents were accused of being involved with the death. And later a young man. It turned into a witch hunt. In the end, though, they decided it was suicide. The parents moved out of town. But really, I don't know all the details."

  Trokic sipped at his cola. A strange coincidence. Or was it? Normally, he didn't think in terms of coincidence in murder cases.

  He'd finished his sandwich, and suddenly he felt restless. "I'd better get back to the office. What you just told me, it might not have anything to do with my case, but I have to look into it."

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Trokic had called an office assistant and told her to search the archives and everywhere else in the bureaucracy for a suicide in Mårslet at the beginning of the 70s, when a boy drowned in the creek. He got back to the office just past two with a thundering headache, the likes of which he hadn't suffered since a series of hangovers following the breakup of Audioslaves. A case file and a transcript lay on his desk.

  Armed with a cup of coffee and two paracetamols, he began reading about the tragedy that had taken place so long ago.

  * * *

  It took only a few lines for him to recognize a last name: Riise. Eigil Riise was his full name. Could he be Jonna Riise's brother? Jonna, Lukas's neighbor? He leaned back in his chair. This was a surprise.

  Eigil Riise was the son of Hans and Tove Riise, two very young parents; she was seventeen, he nineteen when Eigil was born in 1962. They'd lived outside Mårslet and kept to themselves for the most part. Later, Hans became a schoolteacher, while Tove stayed home.

  Trokic skipped forward in the police report to March 3, 1973. Eigil had just turned eleven. While sipping his coffee, he speculated on the similarity. Could it really be a coincidence? If they had lived in different places in town, he might have thought so, but the Riise and Mørk families were neighbors. He turned back to the report. A nature guide walking along the creek that mild day had called emergency services at four twenty-two p.m. a
nd reported seeing what looked like a child's body floating in the water. When the police arrived, they found Eigil dead. Drowned. The forensic technologists were in doubt as to whether he could have drowned himself in the shallow water. Trokic noticed the name of the policeman who had signed the report. Another surprise. He chewed his lower lip a moment, then he called Lisa.

  "Are you related to a Bent Kornelius?"

  "I'm in Amsterdam, in case you've forgotten, and you're calling my cell phone. But yes, he's my father's cousin. Why?"

  "I'm reading a report with his name on it. Is he still with us? I don't recognize the name offhand."

  "No, he retired way back in 1992, before my time, or your time too. He was a police chief."

  "Okay. Is he still alive?"

  "He was in December. He stopped by on the third day of Christmas for our Christmas lunch. He lives out somewhere in Gellerup; he's always lived out there. He's involved in a lot of role model projects in the community. He just turned seventy-five. I can find his phone number for you in my notebook if you'll hang on."

  "Yes, thanks."

  He emptied his coffee in the lily’s flowerpot, then he wiped the dust off the windowsill with a napkin. A few minutes later, she was back on the line.

  "Here it is." She gave him the man's home number along with a cell phone number. "Have fun," she said, then she hung up.

  Trokic stared for a moment at the number. Maybe he was wasting his time, but he needed to know more about the old case. He punched in the number of the retired policeman.

  Chapter Thirty-Three