Wild Shores, page 18
Ten minutes later, Ellen Jensen has confirmed that the same room is free if she wants it. As Karen climbs back behind the wheel, stress is pounding in her ears and she glances quickly at her watch. With a bit of luck, she will be there in an hour, but an hour after that, it will already be dark out. She reaches out and rummages through her bag. The can of Coke overflows when she opens it; she takes a sip of the lukewarm sugariness and forces herself to breathe deeply. In, out, in, out, in, then realises there’s no time for that; the estimated sixty-minute drivetime is for when there’s no snow.
She reaches for the slice of toast Marike tossed in the bag and turns the key in the ignition. Chews methodically as she makes a U-turn and drives back up the high street toward the roundabout. The snow is falling faster now, covering the windscreen like white lace between each sweep of the wipers. She glances up at the sign with a sigh before turning onto the motorway:
GUDHEIM 39 MILES
She drives as fast as she dares. The wind is still relatively low and though there is snow on the road, it’s not being packed into drifts just yet. Just south of the Skreby exit a car has broken down and she is forced to slow down until the resulting congestion clears up. After that, she sees no more than a dozen cars heading south, and she passes about as many going the other way. A combination of hangovers and bad weather is probably keeping people indoors, she thinks, and brakes hard when two deer bound out of the ditch and dash across the road. She continues at a slower pace, her heart pounding. She would hate to have to use the axe in the boot to kill an injured animal.
It’s quarter past three when she reaches the end of the motorway and the sign that announces her three options from there:
GUDHEIMBY .7 MILES
GUDHEIM SHIP SETTING 1.2 MILES
DISTILLERY .4 MILES
Next to the bottommost signpost, someone has written in black paint: God hears prayer.
Karen turns right onto a paved road. The distillery comes into view after just a few hundred yards, dramatically set against its backdrop of sky and sea. Two cars and a van are parked outside by the low wall ringing the property. Karen drives past them up the narrow road as fast as she dares. When she reaches the gate, she rolls down her window and shows her ID to a uniformed officer. He salutes her and waves her through. In the rear-view mirror she can see the journalists climbing out of their cars to try to persuade the long-suffering constable to let them in. Or at least to let them talk to someone who knows what’s going on. Karen noted the DTV logo on the white van and the Kvellsposten one on the green Saab. She suspects the third vehicle belongs to a very peeved local newspaper editor.
The small car park is full to capacity and about ten cars have lined up on what, during the other half of the year, is likely a lush lawn. Now, it’s a frozen patch of mud covered in several inches of snow. Karen leans forward and peers out of the windscreen. She has to strain her eyes to make anything out. Granted, the snow adds light, but the sky is grey and dusk is falling, though it won’t be fully dark for another hour. She sees three black-and-yellow police cars and, further up, Byle’s Volvo, but there’s no sign yet of Kneought Brodal, Sören Larsen or the white vans used by the crime scene technicians. She parks next to one of the police cars, reaches for the bag on the passenger seat and pulls out the muddy wellies. She’s going to pass on the cardigan for now, she decides, and zippers up her green suede jacket.
Pain radiates from her knee to her hip when she slowly trudges through the snow in the direction of the main building. Light is streaming out through the tall windows and she can see a handful of men in orange high-vis vests stomping their feet to stay warm. Thorstein Byle spots her the moment she steps into the light and comes to meet her.
‘Finally,’ he says. ‘Well, I obviously know you came as quickly as you could. Have you had anything to eat?’
Karen shakes his outstretched hand and then her head.
‘Half a slice of toast.’
‘There’s plenty of food inside, lots of leftovers from last night’s party. Maybe we should make sure you get something in you and I can fill you in while you eat.’
‘Where’s the body?’
‘About five hundred yards that way,’ he says, pointing. ‘The scene has been cordoned off and I have two men guarding it. There’s nothing we can do over there until the coroner and technicians arrive.’
Karen nods. Byle’s right and she’s definitely not about to try Sören Larsen’s patience further by crossing the cordon just to satisfy her own curiosity.
‘Sounds good,’ she says. ‘Has Sven Andersén been by?’
‘Not this time. The cause of death is pretty apparent, so I called you right away. Besides, Andersén is ill and I figured there was no harm in waiting for the coroner. Like I said, even I could tell the guy had his throat slit.’
‘Is there anywhere we can talk privately?’
‘Yes, the Groths have been very accommodating. We have full use of the room where we talked to William Tryste last time we were here.’
‘And where is everyone?’
‘Björn Groth lives with his wife in one of the wings and their son Jens and his wife have the other. They’re all in their respective homes. The daughter – Madeleine – and her husband live down the road in Gudheimby.’
‘And the other guests? You said something about a big New Year’s bash?’
‘More like an office party. They’re checked into the hotel by the golf course about half a mile from here. If you can call it a hotel, more like a boarded-up B & B, if you ask me. I have people over there, too, making sure no one slips away.’
‘How many are we?’
‘I have seven guys in the field. People, I mean. Two of them are women.’
‘How did you get that many?’
‘I called the station down in Thorsvik for backup and they sent three guys. I couldn’t have got it done it without them, the flu has made it up here now, too.’
‘Great,’ Karen says, ‘top-notch work, Thorstein, just like last time. Shall we go inside?’
Having decided to hold off on talking to their hosts, they walk through the lobby and past the large copper stills directly to William Tryste’s giant office. Two uniformed officers are seated at the conference table when they enter, but they instantly spring to attention when they spot their superiors, wiping their mouths and saluting while discreetly trying to chew and swallow the food in their mouths.
‘At ease,’ she tells them and notes one of them eyeing her wellies and ripped jeans before sitting back down.
Byle hadn’t exaggerated, she discovers. If these are the leftovers from the New Year’s office party, Groth’s must have pulled out all the stops. Large platters of charcuteries, cheeses, pâtés and shellfish cover most of the conference table. At one end there are baskets full of different types of bread and bottles of mineral water and low-alcohol beer sit next to two giant coffee urns.
Karen heaps a mountain of food on a plate and picks up two bottles of mineral water while Thorstein Byle takes a seat on the leather sofa at the far end of the room. When she joins him, he nods at the two constables, who are still chewing their food in silence, their minds seemingly elsewhere.
‘Are you OK with them in here or would you like me to ask them to leave?’
‘I don’t think they’d be able to hear us from all the way over there, even if they were awake,’ Karen says and spreads butter on a slice of black bread.
She pops a piece of lamb pâté into her mouth and pours herself a glass of mineral water. Then she pulls out her notepad and puts it down next to her plate on the glass coffee table.
‘All right, let’s have it,’ she says.
Byle tells her the Groths had decided to throw a New Year’s party for all their employees and their partners to kick off a year of significant expansion. Aside from Björn and Laura Groth, their two children Jens and Madeleine and their spouses and William Tryste and his wife, the guest list had consisted of eleven employees and six plus-ones. In other words, a total of twenty-five people, of which twenty-one were still present at midnight. Four people had left early, according to what he had been told so far, two after a call from a babysitter worried about the flu, the other two because the wife of one of the malthouse workers had had too much to drink before the main course had even been served, and had therefore been taken home by her husband. William Tryste’s wife Helena had refrained from drinking and had driven her husband home just before one. The company’s secretary, Eva Framnes, had gone with them, having been offered a ride to her home in Skreby. Madeleine Groth and her husband Elias had left the party around half past one and the rest of the family spent the night in their respective homes on the premises. The other guests had stayed at the ‘hotel’ by the golf course. This time, Byle draws air quotes around the word to underline the deficiency of the place.
‘Aside from the foreman, Bergvall, it’s all young men working in production and some of their girlfriends.’
From what Byle had been told, it had been a good party and the mood had been raucous. The Groths had spared no expense when it came to food, drinks or fireworks. Which was probably why no one had noticed one of the guests was missing.
Gabriel’s absence hadn’t been noted until breakfast the next day and at that point the general consensus had been that he was probably still sleeping it off. It wasn’t until the cleaning crew arrived at about half past nine and started to pick up the spent fireworks and empty champagne bottles and glasses out by the lookout point that Gabriel Stuub’s body had been discovered. A young cleaner had at first thought the man slumped under one of the gnarled Scots pines had lain down to sleep and been worried he might have frozen to death. She hadn’t noticed the red snow around the man, or the fact that his throat looked like the throats of the deer her father used to hang in the woodshed after the autumn hunt until she got closer.
‘OK,’ Karen says when Byle is finished, ‘so some of the guests are still at the hotel. We’re not going to be able to keep them here another night.’
‘No, I was just on the phone with Röse. He’s over there with Svanemark and tempers are apparently starting to flare.’
‘You haven’t started taking statements?’
Byle looks uncomfortable.
‘We’ve collected everyone’s information. I wanted to wait for you, to make sure there’s no trouble down the line. My understanding is that our role is mostly to stand guard.’
Karen sighs inwardly. This is the downside to having the national CID head up all serious crime investigations; you take away people’s responsibilities and authority and the result is anxious officers who are scared to put one foot in front of the other.
‘And you have done that wonderfully,’ she says. ‘Just one thing, Thorstein.’
She pauses, searching for the right words. Stop being so fucking passive, she growls inwardly. Out loud, she says, ‘I’m never going to complain about you taking the initiative, so long as what you do makes sense and isn’t in breach of established police regulations. You’re an experienced officer and I need your help. OK?’
‘OK.’
‘So, starting right now, your men are going to take down very basic witness statements and then we’re going to let the guests go home. I want to know the last time each and every one of them saw Gabriel Stuub and whether there were any arguments during the course of the evening. I also want them to ask open questions about Gabriel Stuub, coax out any other observations anyone might have about last night. And I want all the guests swabbed.’
‘Of course. I’ll tell them to get going straight away. But I need to keep a couple of my guys at the crime scene and at least one at the bottom of the drive. With only seven constables, we’re spread pretty thin.’
Karen nods.
‘Yes, this is going to take a while. I’ll start by talking to all the members of the Groth family, but I really need at least two—’
A familiar voice from the doorway cuts her off.
‘So, Eiken,’ says Karl Björken. ‘Here you are, stuffing your face. I thought we had a murder to solve?’
36
The relief Karen feels at seeing the tall, dark man who seems to fill the entire doorway is overwhelming; it’s an effort not to run over and hug him.
Once Detective Inspector Karl Björken from the National CID has been properly introduced to Thorstein Byle, they agree Byle will go down to the hotel to help the officers there, while Karen and Björken tackle the Groth family.
‘But before I do anything else, I want to see the body. What’s taking Sören and Kneought so long?’ Karen snaps impatiently.
‘Calm down, Eiken,’ Karl Björken says and steals a piece of serrano ham from her plate. ‘They were on the same ferry as me. They probably went straight to the scene.’
As they walk over to the spot where Gabriel Stuub’s body was found, Karen tells Karl everything Byle just told her, then briefly sums up the Fredrik Stuub case.
‘I’ve done my homework,’ Karl says. ‘Smeed emailed me your summaries and I skimmed them on the ferry. They made for a pretty unpleasant read . . .’
Karen gives him a surprised look.
‘I didn’t realise you were so sensitive.’
‘I was referring to the language. Why suddenly so formal? I almost dozed off.’
‘It serves Smeed right,’ she replies airily. ‘How come you’re here, anyway? I thought you were on parental leave? And I heard you managed to catch the flu, too.’
‘Fever-free since yesterday morning. Smeed called me right after talking to you, asked if I would consider deferring my parental leave for a few weeks – and let’s just say I was happy to oblige.’
‘I take it you have relatives staying over the holidays?’
‘Mine and Inger’s. And a sober New Year’s Eve on top of that. But yours was more fun, it seems . . .’
Karl Björken shoots her clothes a significant look.
‘Are you aware your hair is full of sparkly stuff? And you’re limping,’ he adds after a second look. ‘How much pain are you really in these days?’
‘Sometimes none at all. Right now, a lot. I made the mistake of dancing last night, in heels, no less, and trudging around in these boots isn’t helping either.’
They stop at a strip of red-and-white police tape flapping in the wind. Two floodlights have already been set up and two more are being installed in the last two corners of the cordoned-off area. This time, Larsen has been given reinforcements, too, Karen notes as she spots five men in white protective clothing carrying heavy equipment cases. Larsen himself looks grim and focused as he orders the uniformed officers to aim the lights better.
Outside the cordon, Karen spots another familiar figure looking equally grim. The coroner is struggling to zipper his overalls around his massive gut and replies with a grunt when Karen says hello.
‘We’re not going to get in your way,’ she says. ‘I just wanted a first sense of what the scene looks like.’
Without responding, Kneought Brodal bends down to pick up his big black bag, lifts up the police tape and lumbers off.
‘Our own little ray of sunshine,’ Björken says with a grin. ‘I reckon there’s a better view from over there.’
He nods toward a hillock on the other side of the cordoned-off area, and after walking over to it, they conclude that he was right. From up here, they have an unobstructed view of Stuub’s body. He’s lying on his side with his knees pulled up and his arms extended along his sides.
‘He was probably sitting with his back against the tree when someone slit his throat. Then he toppled over sideways,’ Karen says, shading her eyes with her hand.
‘Or he collapsed when the cut was made. No, strike that, I think you’re right. He must have died instantly, or his arms wouldn’t be in that position. I assume they haven’t found the weapon?’
Karen shakes her head slowly without taking her eyes off the dead man. Wincing, she watches Kneought Brodal, who has got down on his knees next to the body and is starting his preliminary examination. If having to come out here for Fredrik Stuub put the coroner in a bad mood, it’s probably nothing compared to how testy he’s going to be now.
‘No,’ she says, ‘according to Thorstein Byle no weapon was found anywhere near the victim, and I assume we won’t find it, either,’ she says, nodding toward the edge of the cliff. ‘They’re probably doing the autopsy as early as tomorrow,’ she adds, raising her eyebrows questioningly and firing off a smile she hopes comes across as innocent.
‘And I assume you want me to attend it so you don’t have to? Want me to placate Brodal to the sound of the bone saw?’
‘Yes, please, since you’re kind enough to offer,’ she replies quickly. ‘I had my fill of that the other day. Do you want to head back up? How about I start with Björn Groth and his wife and you drive over to talk to the daughter, Madeleine, and her husband? Apparently, they live over in Gudheimby, so it’s only five minutes away. I’ll try to get to Jens Groth as well.’
‘What about William Tryste and his wife?’
‘I think they’re going to have to wait until tomorrow. Oh, you need a lot of time on your hands when you talk to that bloke. He enjoys waxing lyrical about malting and mashing. And he has an alibi for the murder of Fredrik Stuub.’
‘And we’re sure the two murders are connected?’
‘For the moment, I choose to believe they are.’
Karen grits her teeth against the pain as she struggles down the hillock in her oversized wellies. As soon as she reaches level ground, she shoves her frozen hands in her jacket pockets and pulls her shoulders up against the cold. Right now, she wouldn’t mind a strong shot of whiskey. Single malt, matured in a sherry cask, or American bourbon, either one. Come to think of it, anything would do.
