Frost and Ashes (Daniel Trokics Series Book 2) Page 7

  He glanced at the unopened letter on his desk. His mom had pulled it out of the mailbox and laid it there that morning. No stamp. With only his name on the envelope. He had a bad feeling about it.

  He hadn't wanted to hear what the police talked about with his mom. One of them was a man; he could hear it in her voice when she opened the door.

  Besides, Mathias didn't want to be reminded of Lukas. The memories were buried deep in a locked trunk in the very back of his mind, and he didn’t plan on dumping everything out in front of strangers. What good would that do? The kid was dead. He took a deep breath.

  He brought out a small bag he'd hidden behind his bed. A few cigarettes with wacky tobacky secretly purchased from Poker Johnny. It was small stuff, really, compared to what others his age were doing. Some drank whole bottles of whiskey, others took ecstasy and speed. The worst part about smoking weed was the smell. But to a certain extent, that could be taken care of. He lit the newly purchased joint, pushed a dead potted plant aside, and opened the window with the purple frame. The freezing cold poured in from the small yard where the snow hung heavy on the apple tree. He gasped for breath.

  How did it feel to be strangled? How long do you feel the cord around the thin skin of your neck before you lose consciousness? Ten seconds? Two minutes? And what about when he was dumped into the freezing creek water–was he conscious, did it feel like a thousand needles being driven into his skin? Mathias wasn't sure he wanted to know.

  He played Nephew on his stereo. At low volume–his mother didn’t let him play loud music. It was better than nothing. And it wouldn't have her pounding on his door. The weed would calm him down, drive the thoughts out of his head. His shame would fade out. And he’d forget about everything he'd been through. As far as he was concerned, it was over with. He was grown now, and for the first time in his life, he understood the true value of leaving his childhood behind.

  He looked down at the snow-covered yard and suddenly recalled seeing his mother there the evening before Lukas disappeared, before the blizzard. What had she been doing, holding a stick with some clothes on it? He frowned, then he leaned back on the bed and sighed. It was too late for her anyway. Only Julie and Frederick mattered.

  Slowly, the joint began working, and he looked over again at the envelope on the desk. His emotions were small, puffy clouds, swaying somewhere on the edge of his consciousness. Maybe it was a love letter? It was time to find out. He grabbed the envelope and ripped it open. A small slip of paper fell out and landed on the floor. He didn't need to lean down to read what had been written in pencil.

  * * *

  I know what you've done. I know your secrets.

  * * *

  He stared. It was written in block letters, slightly slanted, making the words anonymous. The fog in his head cleared just as smoothly as it had crept in, and now all he could feel was terror. Someone was after him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Trokic parked the car on Bedervej behind a gigantic Cubist snowdrift, shaped by repeated passes of the snowplow. He headed across a short section of field toward where the boy had been found on Giber Creek. Thanks to the barrier tape still whipping in the wind, the spot was visible from far away in the monotonous landscape. That morning, he'd sent two teams out to check the houses in the area, hoping to find the crime scene, but the voices on the first phone reports had sounded dejected and frustrated, full of talk about what they personally would like to "do to the bastard when they got hold of him." At least the officers cared.

  * * *

  The creek was high and flowing briskly. The constable had told him about the creek’s stature in local history and the lives of the townspeople. The water was dark and unsettled now, and the thought of someone dumping a child into that icy cold made the place feel uninviting. Nasty, even. Trokic could imagine how shaken people in the town must be; not only had a young, innocent life been taken, but the stream they nearly worshiped had been transformed into something ugly and dirty. Every parent must be feeling a ton of anxiety.

  He gazed around and tried to make sense of it all, but it felt as if the place refused to talk to him. As if the snow was covering up the crime. He called Forensics and got ahold of the chief technician, Kurt Tønnies, who snorted in irritation. Trokic recognized the sound–"I'm busy; wait until you read the report later today." He couldn't wait.

  "What do you need to know?" Tønnies said. He was rattling something, loud enough so Trokic had to hold the phone away from his ear.

  "The fishing cord, have you looked at it?"

  "Fishing line, it's called. And, yes, Jan spent all morning checking with manufacturers and talking to several sporting goods stores in town. It's a zero point twenty-five millimeter fusion line, Berkeley Fireline, white. It's relatively common, and you can buy it several places on the net."

  "What's it used for?" Trokic said.

  "A lot of people use it for salmon and trout. I'm no fisherman, but people say it's a really good line."

  "So it's used by someone who's been fishing in the creek. That's no big surprise. Is it expensive, do you have a price on it?"

  The technician checked through some papers and gave him a number.

  "Doesn't sound like you just leave a roll of it lying around," Trokic said.

  He paced around to keep warm. His leather coat could handle autumn and early winter, but it wasn't nearly warm enough for polar weather. His left hand holding the phone was almost frostbitten. At least it felt that cold. "Could you put Jasper on the line for me?"

  A moment later he was talking with his detective. "I want you to dig up everyone in the area who fishes, find out who uses a Berkeley Fireline fishing line, zero point twenty-five millimeters, white color. And if none of them use it, ask them if they know anyone who does any fishing at all who uses the line. I'm assuming there's quite a bit of fishing on the creek in season, and surely a lot of them know each other."

  "Okay, will do. I can also look on the net for sport fishing clubs and debate forums, that sort of thing."

  "Good. And contact the suppliers and get a list of who they've sold the line to. The internet suppliers probably have data on buyers, too. If we're lucky, it's someone who shops on the net."

  Jasper sighed. "I'll round up a few thousand men and get back to you in a few years."

  "Get Anne-Marie or Ahmed to help if it looks like it's going to take time."

  "Okay. I'll see what I can do."

  Jasper hung up. Trokic noticed a young woman, late 20s, shoveling snow in front of the house closest to him. Threatening clouds hung low in the sky, ready to drop another load of snow. Probably wasting her time and energy, he thought. He walked over and showed her his badge. She glanced at it.

  "Lieutenant Detective Daniel Trokic, Århus police."

  "Okay, well, I've already spoken to several of your colleagues. They searched the house and all around and came up with nothing. Have you found the crime scene?"

  "Not yet."

  "Anyway, I couldn't help them, unfortunately. My friends who own the house are traveling in New Zealand; I’m staying here while they’re gone." Her explanation took a while; she was short of breath from shoveling snow. She gathered her long brown hair into a thick ponytail and slipped a hairband around it. He glimpsed a small tattoo beside her ear. What was it? A dolphin?

  "So, you're not from town, then?" Trokic said.

  "In fact, I am, I grew up here, but I live in Århus now. I'm here to work on my thesis."

  "What's your area?"

  "Marine archaeology."

  She smiled a bit apologetically as if that required an explanation.

  "That sounds like something to do with old wrecks, maybe?" he said.

  "That's right, wrecks and old settlements mostly. Lots of Stone Age settlements were flooded around six thousand years ago."

  "Do you know the boy who was killed? Or his family?"

  She laid the shovel down and wiped the sweat off her forehead. He noticed several small scars on
her face. Tiny ones, as if she had cut herself on something incredibly small and sharp. Two millimeter-long scars marred the corner of her mouth and just under her right eye. Though she gazed steadily at him, he sensed a wariness in her blue-gray eyes.

  "I only know the father by sight. He's the big brother of one of my old classmates."

  His hands were frozen stiff, but he managed to give her his card. "Could I ask you to keep an eye over there by the barrier tape, where all the flowers have been laid? And if you see anyone acting suspiciously, call me."

  "Of course. I can see it from the kitchen window. Lots of people have already come by, most of them just lay their flowers and leave."

  "But call me if anyone does something strange, or if they keep coming back."

  She studied the card he gave her, then she looked up and gave him a friendly little smile that he immediately returned. "I’ll do that."

  * * *

  He walked back to the narrow crossing where the boy had been found and stared at the pile of branches. Why had he been thrown into the creek? A shallow creek at that. Several places you could almost cross it without getting your feet wet. It certainly wasn't a river with a current that would lay the grim story to rest on the bottom or send it out to sea. And it certainly wasn't like an ocean, where a body would disappear, perhaps forever.

  But any sort of water would help wipe out technical evidence. Many killers were aware of that when the time came to rid themselves of their burden. It just seemed so spur-of-the-moment though, the boy tangled in the branches so close to town. There was something desperate about it. Why hadn't the killer driven the body out in the sticks and dumped it? One of the nearby lakes would have been a more obvious choice.

  He recalled what Lisa had said about the time on the surveillance camera's recording. He'd passed on the information to Kashmir’s handler and asked if there was any way the dog could have lost the scent in the snow on Hørretvej. But the man had been adamant: a car must have picked the boy up shortly after leaving the after-school club. He proceeded to give Trokic a lengthy report on the advanced avalanche course his German Shepherd had completed in Austria, then he repeated, "Kashmir never makes a mistake."

  His phone rang. David Olesen, the local constable. His voice was deep and resonant; Trokic recalled that the man was extremely tall, around two meters, with a chest like the fender of an old Chevy.

  "Just thought of something," he grunted.

  "Yes?"

  Trokic brought out a pack of cigarettes and managed to get one lit. The ban on smoking there was hereby lifted, he decreed.

  "It looked like Lukas Mørk had been close to a fire."

  "That's right, yes. The coroner confirmed the burns were from fire. Our people have been searching the area this morning, among other things for signs of fire. Nothing has shown up yet. It's one of the biggest mysteries."

  "I got something to show you. Can you meet me in Mårslet tomorrow morning?"

  "Okay. What's it all about?"

  Olesen breathed out heavily. "I think Lukas's murderer has struck before. In a different way."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Darkness began to fall around the house and silence the last traces of traffic outside. That afternoon, Sidsel had drunk an entire pot of coffee, eaten half a roll with olive tapenade, and read three chapters of a thesis in English about the effect of climate on Stone Age settlements beneath the sea around Denmark. Her adviser, a male firebrand in his late 40s, had talked her into forming an overall picture of the threats to the settlements instead of focusing on one of the many shipwrecks in Danish waters, which she had planned on doing.

  These old settlements were being ruined. The reasons ranged from the large underwater waves during storms to sand crabs, ragworms, shipworms, and dying eelgrass, which was directly linked to pollution. And there simply weren't enough professional marine archaeologists to search for the settlements and secure them before they were lost. Her thesis was also going to include several solution models; right now, she had no idea what they would be.

  She'd just poured herself another cup of coffee when the beeping sound from her dream the day before startled her. She laid the book down and stood up. The sound had to be coming from somewhere in the house. A loud trill, at five-second intervals, three times. Then silence. Her heart began to pound. Had she unwittingly fallen asleep while reading the book and been dreaming? Was she wrong, could the sound be coming from outside? She ran over and opened the door, but there was no one there. The dark-haired lieutenant she'd spoken to, the man with the intense, deep-blue eyes and strange name, had left long ago.

  For several moments, she stared out at the winter landscape. It was growing dark. She couldn’t be sure. The sound had been in her head several times earlier. She must be imagining it, or maybe she had dozed off for a second and dreamt it. The snow was falling heavily again, snowflakes of all sizes gliding slowly in a sideways dance through the light on the steps outside. The temperature had fallen a few degrees the night before, and the area around the creek looked like something from the North Pole. Any colder and they should start importing Arctic wolves. There was something fantastic about the simple way nature had gained the upper hand, though. Something she normally only felt when the ocean closed above her and left her alone with underwater life.

  After assuring herself it was quiet outside, she went back to the kitchen to trade her coffee for a glass of wine from the half-empty bottle on the counter.

  She’d felt jittery ever since the police had stopped by that morning. She noticed all the small sounds in the house. The rustling. Wood settling, a slight draft at the exhaust hood in the kitchen.

  Out the window, in the twilight, she made out someone at the mountain of flowers, leaning over with head bowed and hands hanging at his sides. The way his neck curved from his bald head reminded her of a big, sad bird. Suddenly, he turned and looked over at the house as if he’d felt her eyes on him. It was Lukas's dad, Karsten Mørk. She shivered at the thought of him watching her.

  Earlier that day, she'd walked over and seen for herself the many bouquets and wreaths that had been laid just outside the police barrier, along with letters of condolence covered with plastic to keep them dry. Someone had set out small stands with burning tea candles. Miniature teddy bears in clear plastic sacks were also scattered around.

  The thought of the boy made her queasy, and a sudden storm of memories overtook her. Knud, who wanted children. Pressured her. Reined her in. And when she finally got pregnant three years ago, he'd said, "I don't want you diving anymore." She didn't answer him. Because that wasn’t how she’d thought. Hadn't dared. But it was dangerous, especially the diving she'd done in the Red Sea, where in places the shipwrecks nearly covered the sea bottom. A hose could get hooked, or something could go wrong with the equipment. And the bends. Sometimes it was unforeseeable, the sickness showed up seemingly for no reason, even when you made all the required stops on the way up, followed all the rules. The thing was that the new, undiscovered wrecks were the most interesting, but also the most dangerous because so few were familiar with them. She knew of several good divers fooled by the currents at Elphinstone who had drowned, but a site was given more respect after such deaths. She'd wanted to be a pioneer. But now the word "irresponsible" entered her vocabulary: she saw it in people's eyes when she started talking about a dive, or when she was in Egypt. Was she really going to keep diving with a baby on the way?

  After a while, she stopped talking about it. Finally, she didn't even bring out the underwater photos when someone visited. She gave up her membership in two diver clubs. It had nothing to do with paying the fees and everything to do with not receiving the monthly or quarterly magazines bursting with photos taken from all over the world.

  One day, she started bleeding. At three months, she lost the baby. There was no identifiable reason. They tried again, but no luck. The following summer, she announced she was planning on doing graduate studies in marine archaeology, and he took it a
s a rejection of their relationship. And maybe it was. She would never stop wondering if she'd actually wanted the baby out of her body.

  * * *

  Activity down by the flowers pulled Sidsel out of her reverie. Another man had shown up, and the two of them were gesturing wildly. An intense discussion, she thought. Mørk turned on his heel and began walking back across the field. The other man hesitated then trotted after him. She stood watching, wondering about what had happened. Why would they argue at a memorial, a place that should be peaceful? Should she report this to the detective who'd stopped by? His card lay on the kitchen table. Daniel Trokic. After a moment's thought, she decided to mention the episode if she ran into him again.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lisa dropped her bag inside the door and kicked her shoes off in the small, crowded hallway. Eleven-fifteen. Trokic had told her to go home and get some sleep. He hadn't needed to tell her twice. She was so exhausted from sitting in front of a screen most of last night that her eyes fluttered with after-images of small squares when she closed them.

  "Hello," she yelled.

  "Hello, hello," a voice screeched from the living room. It was Flossy Bent P, her parrot. Jacob must have gone out to buy takeaway. When he was visiting and she worked late, he usually went out and bought Chinese. It had amazed her how quickly habits formed in a relationship. They sneaked in like little Trojan horses, and before you knew it, you were sitting the same way on the sofa every evening, and you automatically bought your partner's favorite yogurt. And slowly they were forming a picture of a future together, the wishes and hopes.