The Hanging Girl (15 page)

“Did June complain about Christian’s investigation, Karin, can you remember that?”

There was no doubt that the question had reached her as she turned toward him with expressive eyes. But there was no answer.

“Bjarke’s dead. He’s dead,” she repeated a few times, her hands rotating in front of her again.

Assad and Carl looked at each other. It would be totally coincidental if they got any relevant answer from her, so they might as well shoot from the hip. Carl gave Assad the nod, and with that he pulled out the photo of the man with the VW Kombi.

“Have you heard Christian or June talk about the man in this picture?” asked Carl. It was a gamble.

“The handsome one with long hair,” added Assad.

She looked at them, confused. “Bjarke had long hair. Always long hair,” she said. “Like the man.”

“Yes, the man. Did anyone mention anything about him?” Carl attempted to keep on track.

She seemingly tried to focus on what his finger pointed at, but nothing happened.

“Can you remember his name, Karin? Was it Lot?”

She tilted her head back and laughed openmouthedly. “Lot! His wife was turned to a pillar of salt. Can you remember that?”

Carl looked at Assad. “I think we’ll take a break, what do you think?”

He shook his head in resignation. There didn’t seem to be a suitable camel joke for the occasion.

*   *   *

“We’ll call June Habersaat and cut right to the chase about the guy in the picture. She can’t do anything other than put the phone down.”

Assad nodded thoughtfully, putting his foot up on the dashboard.

“She will, and that’s a guarantee. Maybe we should drive back instead and confront her with the photo in a surprise attack.”

Carl frowned. Drive back to Aakirkeby? Over his dead body. He dialed June Habersaat’s number and got a voice at the other end that could shatter glass.

“Sorry to trouble you again, June. I don’t mean to bother you. We’ve just come from the nursing home where your sister is. She said to say hello. We’ve spoken a little with her about the old days, you know, and
in connection with that we’d like to ask you some questions regarding your knowledge of a young long-haired man that used to drive around the island in a light blue VW Kombi.”

“Who’s led you to believe I knew him?” she snapped. “My sister? She’s demented, haven’t you noticed that, you stupid idiot?”

Carl squinted. This form of directness favored by June Habersaat was just something he’d have to get used to.

“Yes, you couldn’t really help but notice. But perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. It isn’t whether you knew another man back then that interests us, but rather that you have
known
a man who lived up at Ølene in a sort of hippie commune, with a short name reminiscent of something from the Bible, and he was from Copenhagen, too. Ring any bells?”

“Is that what you’ve questioned Karin about? You can’t just go asking people about me or who I’ve known, you shit. I’ve just lost my son, so you can just damn well stop calling me. Got it?”

Carl opened his eyes wide. She didn’t hold back. “Yes, June, I get it. But isn’t a telephone call preferable to being taken down to the station for questioning? We need information about that man and you’re one of the people who
may
have heard about him. We have a photo . . .”

“I have no idea what man you’re talking about. It’s just a pile of shit you’ve found in Christian’s papers,” with which she hung up.

“What?” asked Assad.

Carl swallowed. “Nothing. She misunderstood and mixed things up, and I couldn’t get through. She’s got all her defenses up with us.”

Assad looked wearily at him. “Shall we drive out there and stick the photo in her face?”

Carl shook his head. Why should they do that? June had displayed her unwillingness to cooperate. Karin was beyond helping, and Bjarke was somewhat predisposed as far as contributing anything went. They might as well give up on any form of help from the pitiful remnants of Christian Habersaat’s immediate family.

“What, then?”

“You drive to Listed and help Rose,” Carl said, smiling. “I’m afraid I’ll have to stay here in Rønne and read the files tonight.” Then he reached
over for Assad’s folder and in a moment of rashness passed him the car keys in return. “In honor of the occasion, I’ll let you drive me to the hotel first.”

It was a gesture Carl regretted only moments later, as he should have realized.

Unbelievable how often and how dangerously someone could overtake other cars on the short drive through Rønne.

*   *   *

There were several noteworthy things in the papers Superintendent Birkedal had handed over to them. First, that the information in them hadn’t been updated since 2002, and, second, that the theory of a premeditated murder had never even been considered in the investigation. Maybe it was on the grounds of police politics, because if it was murder, the case could never be shelved. Another possibility was that the scene of the impact had never been sufficiently analyzed.

But Carl knew that the reason could really be something as monstrously banal as the pressure exerted by Habersaat stopping everyone in their tracks. Wasn’t it true that he’d pushed people away when he became too officious with his theories?

Carl nodded to himself. Murder wasn’t your normal run-of-the-mill case on an island like Bornholm, and the mobile task force had never been given the case, so who should have sown the seed of doubt about the cause of death in the minds of the less experienced local investigators? Habersaat?

Hardly.

As he was now able to read in the files, the police in Rønne had unified around the hit-and-run theory, but had never managed to pinpoint the vehicle involved and definitely not who the driver might have been. Only Habersaat’s stubbornness and enormous input of time and energy had led the case in a more specific direction, but who was to say he was right?

A few hours went by before Carl heard Assad and Rose letting themselves in the front door of the hotel.

Assad looked dead beat and collapsed on his half of the bed straightaway. Two minutes later he lay there with his mouth wide open, snoring so loudly that anything not nailed down in the room shook.

Rose wasn’t particularly informative about her assessment and packing up of Habersaat’s estate either. Obviously, it would have to wait until they had it all at headquarters because right now, all she wanted to do was sleep.

Lucky woman, thought Carl as he lay again beside the curly combination of a pneumatic drill and a herd of stampeding gnus. Despite being tempted, he resisted the urge to put a pillow over Assad’s gaping mouth and press down.

He looked around in despair until he spotted the minibar.

Probably better than earplugs, he thought, as he opened the fridge door.

Two lagers and at least ten miniature spirits of various sorts later, his eardrums finally cut out.

October 2013

Pirjo tried to calm
down, washed her boots and hosed down her trouser legs, the spade, and the scooter in the rose-colored building they called the Stable of Senses. It was in this part of the center that the new disciples in particular—weighed down by depressive tendencies and bad karma—went to unburden themselves by stroking the ponies’ muzzles and inhaling the scent of newly strewn straw and fresh horse droppings. It was normally quite busy here with grooming and mucking out the boxes, but at this time of day, when everyone was in deep meditation in their rooms, she was free from any disturbance, thank heavens.

Pirjo matter-of-factly told herself to stop and think, shake all this away, and remember that it was insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

Only an hour ago she’d murdered someone for the third time in her life, and that sort of thing left its mark. Her forearms were bright red and her heart thumping.

“It couldn’t have been any different,” she whispered to herself. That woman Wanda Phinn had forced her way into her world despite all the warnings, as simple as that. Now the consequence was that the high priestess of the Nature Absorption Academy had rightly put a stop to her, thereby preserving her position once again at Atu’s side. The fact that it took its toll each time was another story. Inner peace was put under attack, the soul unbalanced, but what else could you expect?

There was just the problem of Atu finding out about it if things weren’t handled properly.

Pirjo told herself to get her pulse down, crawling up the ladder to the highest loft in the stable.

“Horus, born of a virgin,” she chanted on the way up. “Guide for the twelve disciples, raised from the dead on the third day, free me from my despondency.” And when that didn’t help, she repeated it a few times, still without effect, which shocked Pirjo because it hadn’t been like this the other times. How could she move on if the demons took over, and if the spirit wasn’t with her? Hadn’t she, as always, taken action for a righteous cause? Hadn’t this Wanda arrived to overthrow what she and Atu had built up? So why were her fingers still trembling?

She closed her eyes, put her palms together in front of her face, and breathed slowly and deeply. Now she’d unequivocally spared everyone at the academy from Wanda Phinn’s evil energy. She knew it. So it couldn’t be wrong.

She chanted one more time and noted to her relief that her pulse had fallen.

She nodded in thanks toward the bundle of rays coming in through the skylight windows, thanked Providence, and went over the course of events with renewed energy and power.

The last few hours had been incredibly intense, and so mistakes were easily made. Something could be forgotten or overlooked, and if that was the case, then the only thing to do was to rectify it and quickly.

Pirjo closed her eyes and rewound the film in her head to the scene of the crime. As far as she knew, she hadn’t made any mistakes or overlooked anything.

The body of the naked woman wouldn’t be found anytime soon, if ever. She was sure of that. It had been left in a remote place. That was one thing ticked off her list.

The ground under the deepest of the puddles out in Alvaret had been soft, so it had been easy to dig deep enough that the grave wouldn’t be exposed in the event of a downpour. That was sorted, too. Check!

She’d meticulously erased any tracks that might lead a stray botanist or tourist off the beaten path and over toward the grave. Check!

And, finally, she’d ensured that nobody had seen her out there, or when she drove out of the area. Check!

Pirjo nodded with satisfaction and pushed a couple of cardboard boxes to the side over the loft planks. She needed to get going. The communal assembly at the academy would begin soon, now that the disciples’ meditation and self-examination in their rooms was over. Just now the courtyard was empty. So only the treacherous security cameras, which she’d convinced Atu to install both inside and outside the area, could document that she’d been gone and what she’d done since she’d arrived back.

She would make sure to delete the video recordings when she got to the office, so that wouldn’t be a problem either.

Now all that was left was the woman’s belongings.

She looked over at the pile of clothes that she’d taken from the body: skirt, blouse, underwear, a two-tone belt, scarf, stilettos, coat, and stockings. Everything needed to be destroyed and burned, of course. But until a better opportunity presented itself, it would have to stay here in one of the removal boxes in the storage loft among the clothing left by individual members of the academy, rejected in their future aesthetical lives.

The rest, consisting of the woman’s handbag and its contents, a pack of condoms, various items of makeup, cell phone, keys—including the key to the luggage box at the station—a few hundred euros in notes, travel documents, and passport, would have to be dealt with immediately.

What else did she need to think about?

Wanda Phinn had written in her application that she alone in her family had emigrated from Jamaica some years ago and that she’d quit her job. She rented a room in the outskirts of London, a life that she wanted to leave behind her. There was nothing for her to stay for in London; it was a finished chapter in her life. She’d cancelled all her subscriptions, including the Internet. She’d sold all her worldly goods: computer, radio,
TV, furniture, and a few clothes. And after that, and hopefully a successfully completed introductory course at the academy, her only wish was to be inducted as a permanent resident.

There was nothing else, so the situation seemed safe. The woman had left no noticeable trace of this, her final journey in life. And even if she had, when the occasion arose, Pirjo would just deny any knowledge of her existence and proposed plans. How in the world would anyone ever be able to prove anything different? Wanda Phinn’s computer had been sold. She had no next of kin in England. She had nothing to stay for in London and as such probably hadn’t had any friends or colleagues she confided in.

On top of this, that morning Pirjo had already deleted her hard drive of any information that could connect her to the woman, so what else was there? Could there be someone who’d seen them on their journey from Kalmar out to Alvaret? Yes, there was sure to be, but nobody Pirjo knew. And even if she had accidentally been seen together with the woman, would strangers really remember something so insignificant in a couple of weeks?

Impossible, she thought, reasoning that there had been a lot of new faces on the west side of the island today.

Right enough, the last big wave of tourists had been, but at least a hundred visitors had been trawling the roads on the west coast all day in connection with the collaborative event organized by the art association.

It was definitely not a day where a single event or a few people on the road would be remembered more than any other. No, she needn’t think about that anymore. Wanda Phinn would, with all probability, not be reported missing for a very long time, and who would remember a day like today by then?

Pirjo shook her head and placed a couple of large pieces of sandstone in the woman’s bag. After she’d thrown it as far as she could out into the Baltic Sea, she just needed to make it back to the assembly hall before the communal assembly got under way.

Thank God things were still such that if Pirjo wasn’t there to do everything, nothing worked.

*   *   *

She dressed in white and calmly entered the hall. She’d show all the disciples their rightful places according to rank and association before Atu came in. Since it was October, the light from the skylights in the hall was still crystal clear, and the glass-tiled section in the floor, on which Atu would shortly stand, seemed almost as golden warm and captivating as if looking at the master himself.

When he entered, the assembled disciples were sitting silently on the floor as usual, faces full of expectation. Everyone lived and breathed for these sessions because Atu’s words were the high point of the day, regardless of whether it took place here or on the beach at dawn. In the presence of Atu Abanshamash Dumuzi, you found the answer to all quests and questions, and disciples flooded here.

It still felt so profound to be a part of, thought Pirjo.

When Atu stepped forward in his yellow robe with the beautiful detailing on the arms, it was as if a light in the darkness—an aura of energy—was suddenly lit. It was like beholding the truth of life itself when he opened his embrace toward the assembly and took them into his world.

Some of the people said that they considered these assemblies the end of a pilgrimage, wherein they achieved the ultimate cleansing of both body and soul, and where unexpected and definitive new life paths were stretched out before them. Others were less concrete and objective, letting themselves go without reservation, allowing what they called the wonder in the soul to occur.

But regardless of how they were affected, they all had two things in common. They’d paid a fortune to be sitting there on the floor with crossed legs, and it was Pirjo who was in charge of who was invited in and where they should sit. And while Pirjo, like everyone else at the academy, idolized Atu, it was at least in a different and more complete way than it was for the others.

For Pirjo, Atu symbolized man and provider, incarnate sexuality, spearhead, security, and, finally, spirituality, all in one and the same person. That’s how she’d felt ever since she first met him. Maybe she’d become a little thick-skinned over the years in terms of the status Atu had fought his way up to as prophet and spiritual guide. But it definitely hadn’t always been this way.

It had, after all, been a long road.

*   *   *

The town of Kangasala, apart from being well-to-do and situated at a suitable distance from Tampere, Finland’s second biggest city, was also very close to the small rural town where Pirjo’s parents settled down and decided to raise their children. Here, in close proximity to that fabled and poetically famed place where affluent tourists and stunningly picturesque nature melted together, her parents had placed their enormous aspirations for the future. It should have been so good, but it wasn’t, as neither Pirjo’s father nor her mother possessed the qualities necessary to realize these aspirations.

A small and abysmally stocked kiosk was all that came of their dreams. A kiosk with a poor customer base and out-of-the-way location, just a simple shed built during the First World War from timber and other material that couldn’t be used elsewhere. Ice-cold winters and lukewarm summers where mosquitoes from the small lakes nearby plagued them to death. That was about the sum of it.

Their entire lives emanated from this wretched starting point. Here, the parents and their three children were supposed to secure both their livelihood and status, and get their hands on the raw materials that in times of hardship could serve as both a cultural upbringing and general education.

So it was only through the glitzy magazines in the kiosk that the spectacular events and attractive perspectives to be found in the world could creep into Pirjo’s uneventful life. Through them, future possibilities were opened, but only with the understanding that you had to leave. And Pirjo dreamt of having possibilities in her life, which little by little
became limited to absolutely nothing when her dad pulled her out of school so she could serve in the shop when he couldn’t be bothered himself.

But that’s not how things shaped up for Pirjo’s two younger sisters, who were both loved more by their parents. Nothing was too good for them. They could go to dance classes in town, and they had to learn how to play musical instruments and look respectable. All of which cost money, which Pirjo had to scrape together. A reality that both rankled and frustrated her every single day, or to put it bluntly, pissed her off, made her green with envy, and gave her a real thirst for revenge.

It was only when her younger sister came home with a kitten and was allowed to keep it that it really hit her.

“Whenever I’ve asked for a pet you’ve always said
no,
” she shouted. “I hate all of you. You can all go to hell.”

The price of her honesty was being boxed around the ears. The kitten stayed where it was.

When she turned sixteen the following week, the expected shower of gifts never materialized. It was that day that she finally realized that everything was completely meaningless, because no matter what she dreamt of or aspired to, it was her lot that life’s great experiences would be few and far between.

As a result of boredom and a hatred for her sisters and her own life in equal measure, that same evening she began hanging out with some troublemakers from Kangasala, and the result was probably a little more exciting than was good.

When her dad found her sitting behind the kiosk with these scum smoking hash, the beating he gave her was so brutal that she couldn’t lie down to sleep for several days.

And while her bodily wounds and soul healed, she overheard her mother warn her sisters never ever to end up like their big sister.

“But that won’t happen. There’s only one rotten apple in the cart. Your big sister is a vile girl, not like you, my angels,” she ended with a final twist of the knife.

“So maybe we should just throw the apple out?” said the youngest, laughing.

“Throw the apple out?” That was her they were talking about.

If Pirjo could have cried, she would have, but she’d realized long ago that her vulnerable side couldn’t be used for anything. But there had to be some sort of reaction; otherwise she’d go mad.

In an act of defiance, she crept out of bed that night and killed her sister’s kitten and then placed it right in the middle of the shop counter.

She then took everything from the cash register that she thought she’d been cheated out of, and left the rest of the contents out for whoever might walk by. With her bag over her shoulder and the door left open behind her, she ran away from home with the intention of never coming back.

She hooked up for a while with some Brits and a group of crazy bohemians from Helsinki in a rented cabin on the other side of town. And as these friends, who were older than her, lived somewhat more unconventionally than the local residents could deal with, they became the talk of the town, and the young Pirjo along with them.