Frost and Ashes (Daniel Trokics Series Book 2) Read online

  He picked the plate up off the floor and sighed. The loss of the sausage was regrettable but not all that important, due to his lack of appetite. He opened a bottle of Zubrówka vodka, a gift from a recently-released Polish narcotics baron who had seen the light while behind bars. He poured out a third of a glass and diluted it with apple juice from the refrigerator.

  Usually, when he opened his front door and stepped inside, he expected that what he considered to be normal life would take over. Working on a case at home was voluntary, a choice he made. And as a rule, he didn't bring work home, at least not mentally. No doubt it was a natural defense he had built up during his years as a policeman and his time in Croatia. It was how he sorted things out.

  But though they were seldom, there were exceptions to the rule. The images from the creek where they'd found the boy were glued to his retina and his subconscious was working overtime. What was he like, this ruthless killer? What exactly would it take to tighten the fishing line around Lukas's throat and hold it, a death grip? Uncontrollable anger? An absolute cold-bloodedness? And how did it fit in with the flames that Lukas was obviously marked by?

  He tasted the vodka. The strength was fine, but it wasn't cold enough. It was a Polish bison vodka; its taste and color came from a single blade of bison grass in the bottle. The grass grew only in the Bialoweiźa forest of northeastern Poland and Belarus, where European bison roamed and left their dung. The taste had a hint of vanilla, and in his younger days in Croatia, together with his brother and cousin, he’d drunk it with apple juice–szarlotka. Nowadays, he mostly drank red wine.

  Trokic took the bottle and his glass into the living room along with a stack of reports he’d already read. He meant to go over them again, but now his thoughts began to wander. He leaned back and looked at the small vibrant landscapes hanging on the grayish-green walls as the vodka began to work on him. His house wasn't an icon of home decoration. It was filled with old books he'd never read and unremarkable furniture of no discernible style. Too many electrical outlets. Then there were the small paintings his cousin Sinka had done.

  His thoughts wound around to his last trip to Croatia. He had a decision to make on an important family matter concerning Sinka's disappearance. New information to consider. But he couldn't think about that now; it would have to wait.

  He couldn't stop his mind from churning. For the first time in ages, he turned on his TV and put on a DVD of a Rammstein concert in Nimes. His stereo equipment had cost a fortune, not even counting the wireless headphones he used not to disturb his neighbors. His TV, though, was close to being a museum piece. He didn't own a remote, either, since a woman whose name he’d forgotten spilled a glass of beer on it. Fortunately, his TV had a headphones output. He sank back on his couch and got his head together again as the German band blasted out a sound as heavy as a freight train, in a show with flames, smoke, orgies of lights, fireworks, and black fingernails.

  * * *

  He woke up on the couch when his phone rang. He sat up, pushed the headphones aside, fumbled around for the phone, and answered.

  "Jasper here," the voice said. "Is it okay to call so late?"

  "That depends on why you're calling."

  "Lisa and I have been going through the surveillance camera videos from all the shops."

  Trokic checked the clock. It was one-thirty, and he was feeling a bit nauseous. Vodka on an empty stomach. "So, what did you find?"

  "We had to call to tell you. We're almost sure. We'll need to enlarge it and sharpen the image; Lisa plans on doing that in the morning. But it looks like it’s Lukas, also because of the schoolbag. It has a gigantic ladybug on the back, which his schoolbag has if I remember right. He's walking past the bakery window."

  Suddenly, Trokic was wide awake. He reached automatically for his cigarettes on the coffee table and shook his lighter to bring it to life. After taking a drag, he said, "Is he with someone?"

  "No, not exactly. But there's someone on the other side of the street."

  "A man?"

  "I can't be 100% sure, but I think so. It looks like he's just standing there. Like he's looking at Lukas. And waiting."

  Chapter Six

  Saturday, January 6

  Sidsel banged her skull against the bed's headboard as she struggled to wake up from the dream. It was still murky outside. Seven-thirty, she guessed without checking her watch on the nightstand. She lay looking up at the stucco ceiling a moment, trying not to think about the nightmare. First, she had dreamt that her suit tore while diving in the Plura Grotto in Norway, which meant a certain and quick death from hypothermia. Then she’d dreamt that her alarm was ringing. Long beeps in five-second intervals. Angry. Insistent. And so lifelike that she kept hearing it long after she woke up. Sidsel moistened her dry, chapped lips. Her heart was still hammering, and she tried to breathe deeply, the way she had taught herself. All the way into her lungs.

  She sat up and looked out the window with her hands cupping her cool breasts, and the comforter pulled up to her chin. In all the years she'd been diving, she'd had very few nightmares about water, even though she dreamt about it often and in many ways. Maybe the creek had set off the nightmare, her awareness of the tragedy there. Giber Creek was visible from several windows in the house, and now in the dawning light, she noticed the crooked trees standing like teams of guards along the creek. The red-and-white barrier tape was still visible. When she'd arrived in town yesterday, something felt all wrong. Her old hometown seemed gripped in fear. People huddled on the street in small groups with anxiety etched on their faces. When she got to the house, she noticed the plainclothes officers at the creek and asked what had happened. The horrible news about the boy tied her stomach in knots, and she hadn't been able to shake the feeling all day. Was it some sort of hellish coincidence that a child had been killed right before she returned home? Lukas, his name was, according to one of the officers. She hadn't caught his last name, and she wondered if she knew his parents.

  She swung her stiff legs over the edge of the bed and studied them a moment. They needed shaving. She glanced at the pile of clothes on the wood floor, picked out a Nike tracksuit, got dressed, and went downstairs into the kitchen. Her old friends, Mette and Søren, had needed someone to housesit while they crisscrossed New Zealand in a rented car, and Sidsel had jumped at the chance; she was about to start her dissertation in marine archaeology, and here she could work on it in peace and quiet.

  The light tan house was from the 1920s and had been given a name: Muspelheim. Søren and Mette had bought it from an estate; they’d been given no guarantees for its condition, but it had an elegant form and small, six-pane windows. And it was a large house, especially for back then. Three stories, approximately three hundred square meters. She hadn't even been in the basement yet, and most of the rooms were dark and closed off to save on heating. There were still a lot of repairs and renovation to do; the old stove looked like an electricity guzzler, the kitchen counter was low and covered with scratches and marks, and the yellow-green linoleum was torn in several places and curled at the edges. The kitchen led to three connected rooms that shared a wood floor. The light, spacious rooms with beautiful stucco ceilings were the best features of the house. An old wood stove stood in one of the rooms, but she hadn't used it yet.

  Armed with a cup of coffee, she entered the winter room facing west, away from the creek and with a view of the yard. After arriving the day before, Sidsel stacked all the books she'd need for her dissertation in that room. So far, she hadn't touched them. She gazed around the dark yard a bit, then she rose halfway up from her chair. The snow was tramped down; someone had been walking around the house. Or an animal–a deer? That was it, surely. No other animal could tromp it down that way. Odd, though. A deer roaming so far from the forest.

  She rocked back and forth in the armchair. Was it a mistake coming here? She felt isolated, fragile, and the strange ringing–or was it more a beeping?–from her dream still echoed in her head. Before she
finished her coffee, though, her gloomy thoughts had melted away. She began to feel comfortable, at home. Time for a shower; her long brown hair felt tangled up and stringy.

  A knock on the door startled her, and immediately she frowned and glanced at her watch. It was only eight. The thought of an early visitor flustered her, and she tried in vain to tame her hair as she walked out to open the door.

  Two male plainclothes policemen dusted in snowflakes flashed their badges. Suddenly, she remembered parking her car in the wrong direction out on the street. But surely that wasn't why they were there?

  "Police. I'm Jasper Taurup; this is Morten Lind. May we ask you a few questions?"

  "Uh, okay…?"

  "You probably noticed all the activity down by the creek yesterday. We found the body of a boy; he's been killed."

  "I saw you when I got in yesterday; I talked with one of your colleagues. It's so horrible. But I didn't get here until late, and I'm only housesitting for a few weeks, so I doubt if I can help you."

  The policeman doing the talking lifted his chin and looked around the entryway behind her. Sniffed the air, even, as if smell could reveal the secrets of the house. He didn't look much older than she was, late 20s, something like that. His mouth was small, and his face was pale and marked by acne from his younger days.

  "Where's the owners of the house?"

  "They're in New Zealand for a few weeks, on vacation."

  "How long have they been gone?"

  "Since Christmas."

  He sent her a slightly suspicious smile. "So, you're saying the house has been empty since Christmas?"

  "It's only been a few weeks," Sidsel mumbled.

  The two policemen exchanged glances. "We're searching the houses on the street. Would you mind us coming in and looking around?" Taurup wiped his face off with his thin hand.

  She bit her lip. She did mind, actually; if she remembered right, her dirty underwear lay on the bathroom floor, the kitchen was a catastrophe because she hadn't cleaned up after dinner last night, and she'd emptied her suitcase right onto the bedroom floor. But did it really matter? If they had to come in, they had to come in. She opened the door wide. "Not if you wipe your feet."

  "No use beating around the bush," the dark-blond, pale policemen said, as he stomped his boots free of snow on the mat. "We haven't found where the boy was killed yet, so we're out looking around. We need to find it quickly, as soon as possible. Have you been in the basement or the attic, out in the garage, places like that since you arrived?"

  "No. But there's no sign of a break-in or…" She shivered as images of crime scenes from horror movies raced through her head. But one of the officers the day before had told her the boy had been strangled. Which meant there wasn't any blood, surely?

  "A break-in isn't necessarily all that obvious, but there could be signs of a struggle. And the boy's school bag is missing. You haven't picked up around the house, have you?"

  "No, the whole house was neat and clean when I came."

  "Have you seen any signs of a fire around?"

  "No."

  "All right. If it's okay with you, I'll take a look around, and Morten will stay out here with you."

  "Fine. Yes, of course." She shut the front door. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thanks. We have a lot of houses to check along the creek here, so we need to keep moving. I'll start upstairs and work my way down."

  * * *

  Sidsel sat on one of the chairs at the kitchen table and poured a cup of coffee. As she waited, she glanced at the stony-looking policeman who had yet to say a word.

  "If I may ask, what's the boy's last name? I grew up here, and I'm just thinking I might know the parents."

  "Mørk, Lukas Mørk," Lind said.

  Sidsel thought for a moment as she visualized a gallery of people from her childhood. "Was he Karsten Mørk's son? I know who that is, though I don't know the family personally."

  "That's him."

  Karsten Mørk had to be at least ten years her senior. She knew him only by sight, and only because he was the older brother of one of her classmates. A large, stocky man who avoided eye contact and seldom spoke.

  She heard the other officer crawling around in the attic. The kitchen faucet was dripping; she listened to each drop of water against the steel sink for a few minutes before standing up and shutting the faucet off. From the kitchen window, she could just make out two adults and a child down by the creek, close to where the boy was found. One of them put their arm around the child while the other knelt down and placed a bouquet in the snow. Sidsel felt a lump in her throat.

  The officer searching the house came in and opened the door to the basement. He walked down and rustled around for a few seconds before returning.

  "Nice wine collection your friends have down there. Other than that, there's nothing to see. We'll check out the shed before we move on."

  * * *

  Three minutes later, they were back at the door. "Nothing out in the shed either," Taurup said. "Thanks for your help; have a good day."

  "You're welcome."

  Just before she closed the door, he said, "Oh, by the way."

  "Yes?"

  "Your car is parked in the wrong direction outside." He winked at her.

  Chapter Seven

  Taurup and Lind walked back to the road and headed for the next house. A red brick home with a black roof from the 50s, about seventy-five meters away.

  "I could have got nice and warm back there with a little help from her," Lind said. He grinned and stuck his notepad back in his breast pocket. "Maybe we ought to go back and do a body search, what do you think?"

  "Just cut that crap out, okay?" Taurup wished for the umpteenth time that Trokic was still his partner. Or at least for someone other than Lind, who had yet to utter a sentence that didn’t reveal a profound lack of social intelligence. Luckily, he usually didn't say much.

  "How many more houses to go?" Lind asked.

  "Three, I think. And that's it."

  * * *

  A few moments later, they knocked on a nice door with a heavy knocker. "Annie Wolters" was written on the nameplate on the wall. After a few seconds of silence, a lady in her early 80s wearing a brown dress with yellow flowers opened the door. Her gray hair had a bluish sheen, and her eyes moved a bit involuntarily behind a pair of thick, green glasses. A slight smile revealed her square false teeth. She reminded Jasper of his own grandma, still alive and quite well and tyrannizing the entire family. How did this entire generation of women manage to end up with the same bluish-gray hair, he wondered.

  He repeated almost word for word what he'd told the lady's neighbor to explain why they were there.

  "It's terrible what happened, just terrible," she said. Her eyes held the same expression as the rest of the town–fear.

  "It's a very sad case, you're right, Fru Wolters. So, we’re looking for people who might be able to tell us something useful. Someone who might know something they're not even aware of. Have you been home the past few days? We're especially interested in the day before yesterday, the afternoon and evening."

  He glanced behind her. The entryway was elegant with a royal blue carpet and a small, dark wooden secretary. A wool coat, a long red umbrella, and a cane hung from a dumbwaiter. It even smelled like his grandma’s house. A faint odor of soap mixed with coffee and baking.

  "I was home all day the day before yesterday, and yesterday too. The only ones here are the cat and I. Would you care to come in for a cup of coffee and a cookie?"

  "Thank you, but we'll have to pass. If you've been home both days, all day long, there's no reason for us to look through your house. Besides, we’re busy. What about your shed, though? Is it locked?"

  "Oh, yes, I have a lock on it. But you're welcome to look inside. The lock is brand new; my son bought it for me. I have the key right here."

  She pulled out the drawer of the secretary and handed them the key.

  Lind grabbed it. "I'll
check it out."

  When he was out of sight, Taurup asked, "Did you know Lukas?"

  Suddenly, the elderly lady's expression turned guarded as she nervously fingered a gold chain around her wrinkled neck. "Well, yes. I knew who he was. He was Karsten Mørk's son, and Karsten is the same age as my son. And it so happens I still give piano lessons. Lukas came here several times last spring, but then he lost interest in the piano. That happens with many of my students nowadays. He had no trouble reading the notes, but he had no sense of timing. He seemed more interested in insects, to tell the truth, so at least he had something. But he was a very nice boy."

  Morten stepped back in and shook his head. "Nothing in the shed." He handed the key back to her.

  "So, you haven't seen him around here lately?" Taurup said.

  She hesitated. Lind shuffled his feet impatiently with a blank look on his face. He sighed almost inaudibly through his teeth.

  "Not that I recall," Fru Wolters said.

  She adjusted her heavy glasses and stared down at a point close to Jasper's feet. For a split second, he sensed the woman wavering. She’s lying, he thought. But then he shrugged it off; she was a slightly overweight eighty-year-old woman who used a cane. And there were limits to how paranoid they should be.

  "In fact, I haven't seen him since the last piano lesson he took. And as I said, that was quite some time ago."

  "If you do happen to think of anything that could be related to this case, call us, Fru Wolters. This is a very serious homicide we're investigating."