Fatal Crossing Read online

  She gave up on the tea and wiggled a little deeper into the bed, still gripping the book firmly.

  His hair had already dried, and he smelt faintly of sun-warmed straw and salt water.

  She had reached page eight before she realised that she hadn’t taken in a single word.

  His breathing revealed that he was not asleep.

  With a sigh Nora put down the book on the bedside table and turned off the lamp. The moonlight shone on his collarbone and it required a considerable effort not to let her finger trail its curve. She clenched her fists.

  ‘Good night,’ she said.

  ‘Good night,’ he said.

  And there they lay.

  Nora could feel electricity on her skin and sense his closeness. Yet again her thoughts returned to that night after the leavers’ ball in Hanne's garden. Why had she panicked when he told her? Because he had wrecked their friendship by secretly having feelings for her, perhaps?

  Back then it had felt like a betrayal. But she was no longer an eighteen-year-old girl — maybe it was time to grow up.

  ‘Andreas?’ she said tentatively.

  He was asleep.

  X

  The next morning she woke up in the crook of his arm. They were completely tangled up in one another, and she couldn’t remember how that had happened. Her long hair was trapped under his shoulder and one of his thighs locked her leg in position. At that very moment while she hovered between sleeping and being awake, Nora had a feeling of them being an obvious fit. As if everything had led up to this point.

  Persistent buzzing had woken her up, and she searched sleepily for the source. It was Andreas's mobile, which was on the bedside table next to him. Slowly she reached across him, taking care not to disturb him, thinking it was an alarm that needed turning off. But it was a text message. She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t mean to, but before she had time to close her eyes and put down the phone, the letters seared into her.

  Missing you, hon. Bx

  She slipped out of the four-poster bed. Out of Andreas, out of the white sheets, put on her swimsuit and went down to the sea.

  When she had been swimming for several minutes, she saw him on the jetty. He was looking for her. She dived under the water. When she came up for air, he was gone.

  Suddenly his head appeared right next to hers. He was slightly out of breath. ‘If that's not cheating, then I don’t know what is,’ he said.

  Nora studied his face. Perhaps he didn’t know that they had slept in each other's arms most of the night. Perhaps he hadn’t seen the message from PC Perfect.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, starting his long, strong crawl.

  She followed him. As they sliced through the water, she slowly found a rhythm and last night's thoughts disappeared with each stroke.

  They walked back to Dolphin Guesthouse in silence and ate breakfast with their heads buried in the newspapers. Nora read Section Two of the Guardian with enormous interest, and would from time to time glance furtively at Andreas, who was wolfing down muesli as if their sharing a bed was completely normal.

  ‘My uncle called this morning,’ he said, pouring coffee for her from a cafetière on the table.

  And?’

  ‘He has, with a little help from Karl, got forensics to look more closely at the fingerprints from your picture. They’re expecting a result next week.’

  ‘Super,’ she said without much enthusiasm and put down her newspaper. Surely he must have seen the message from PC Perfect by now. ‘I, however, am in dire need of an internet café. The signal here is quite simply too poor, and I may have to do a little bit of work,’ she said.

  He shrugged. She knew him well enough to know that he was annoyed, but didn’t want it to show.

  They packed their bags and walked downstairs to Wesley in the reception, who checked them out. With a hint of a smirk, Nora thought.

  ‘I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Miss Sand. We won’t charge you for the room, obviously. Thank you for your patience,’ he said politely.

  Andreas came with her into town, and settled down with an espresso and Murders of the Century at a Parisian-style café, while Nora entered a shop with a low ceiling in the ugliest building in the town, a pink concrete block with a notice in the window advertising internet for five pounds an hour.

  She managed to grab the second last computer. The other three were already occupied by a bunch of spotty-faced, prepubescent lads busy playing each other at Counter-Strike. It was only ten in the morning, but each of them already had a large Coke, and a family-sized packet of prawn cocktail crisps was doing the rounds.

  Nora assumed they came from the mobile homes rented out to families every summer. The boys were already bored rigid on the first day of their holiday at being separated from their mates back home.

  A sign above the gum-chewing lad who took her fiver announced that the consumption of food and beverages was not permitted, but the rule didn’t seem to be strictly enforced.

  First she checked if the world was still in one piece. The BBC indirectly confirmed this as their lead story was the fatal outcome to a famous comedian's drugs and alcohol binge, and sad though the event was, it was unlikely to pluck the heart strings of Globalt's readers.

  She checked a couple of other news sites just to be on the safe side, but it soon became clear that the silly season, as the British press had so aptly named it, had well and truly arrived. The Times had tested the seawater quality along British coasts, the Daily Mail thought they had discovered new and vital evidence in the case they described as ‘the murder of Princess Diana’.

  At closer inspection it turned out to be a paparazzi photographer who so far had not been interviewed by the media, and had only now come forward. As far as Nora could gather, he had absolutely nothing to add to the tragic accident that had killed the princess in a Paris tunnel. However, you didn’t need great analytical skills to work out why the story had ended up on the front page. A picture of Diana could bump up the circulation by as much as twenty per cent on a slow day, and who didn’t need that in the silly season?

  Nora logged on to her email account. There were forty-three new messages. Thirty-one could go straight to the bin. Then there was an email from Pete.

  Where in the world are you, sweetheart? Going to Cambodia on Thursday for The Times. Dinner before then? Give me a bell. Your mobile is out of range.

  She typed a quick reply: Deal. How about the Thai place on Wardour Street, Tuesday at 8? Great news about Cambodia. Will you be going with Colin or Tess?

  Four emails from the Crayfish.

  The first two were regular round-robin emails sent to every reporter: Don’t forget to submit your expenses on time. The Excel ninjas have been after me again, one demanded. This was a reference to the magazine's long-suffering accounts department.

  The third was the usual weekly plan of what would appear on the front page of the next issue of Globalt: Floods in China. Who is responsible? Isabelle tries to find some answers. Jens has been to Kabul and seen women in education. We have bought a freelance story from a Norwegian journalist who has investigated oil pollution in the Niger delta, and I’m working on an analysis of Russia's new energy policy and how it will affect the West. In the centrefold and on a couple of pages afterwards there will be an excellent photo report from a Roma camp in Romania by our new photojournalist intern, Yacub, and then a translation of an excellent feature article from Frankfurter Allgemeine about the euro.

  As always Nora felt a tiny stab of guilt when her name didn’t feature in the weekly plan. But it was only a stab and she had learned to live with it over the years. Some weeks were busier than others; it was just the way it was.

  Hi, Nora. Tried your mobile a few times, but no coverage. I’m presuming this is work-related. Call me when you’ve got something. I’m expecting you to write for next week's issue or the week after that. If not, then call me anyway, the Crayfish wrote in his last email.

  She left it unanswered. There wer
e a few more things she needed to investigate before she could be sure she really had a scoop.

  There was also an email from Trine who wanted to know about her ‘schoolgirl crush’ as she called it. Nora chuckled to herself, then wrote a brief reply: No comment.

  Finally, there was an email from a D. Metcalfe. The name rang a bell. She checked the email address again — d. metcalfe@crossassociates. com — and opened it.

  Dear Miss Sand,

  On behalf of Mr Christian Cross, I am delighted to inform you that his esteemed client, Mr William Hickley, is prepared to meet with you in Wolf Hall Prison on the first Thursday this month at 2.30 p.m. In order to facilitate this, you will be required to sign a number of documents, as well as obtain written permission, which you will need to take to Mr Hickley's current residence. I must therefore ask you to contact our office no later than this Thursday in order to organise these matters.

  Yours sincerely,

  Doris Metcalfe (Mrs)

  Secretary to Christian Cross, Cross Associates.

  Nora couldn’t believe her luck. Christian Cross had lowered her expectations completely, but something must have convinced William Hickley to meet with her. She wondered if he was expecting a fee. The Crayfish would never agree to that and Nora, too, refused to hand over money to a man to talk about the women he had murdered.

  She made a note of Doris Metcalfe's number on a scrap of paper in her handbag. Then she tried calling her, but as there was only one bar on the mobile signal, the call didn’t go through.

  At that moment her screen went blank. Her time was up. She packed away her things and joined Andreas who was reading quietly in the sun. He looked up from the book when she positioned herself in front of him and blocked out the sun.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked gently, and watched her with an expression that sent her straight back into last night's secret cave and the scent of straw in that bloody four-poster bed.

  ‘Latte, please,’ she said, and settled down on the chair opposite him.

  He fetched it while she tried Doris Metcalfe again. Still no signal.

  While they drank their coffee, she told him about her breakthrough. Then they went over to The Oysterman where Elvis was busy expressing his unreserved praise of Las Vegas.

  A slightly overweight man with a reddish beard and a half-empty glass of draught beer in front of him was at the bar. Polly smiled when she saw Nora, and immediately pointed to the bearded man, who was wearing a lilac sweatshirt with the words ‘Ollie's Ashram’ on the back.

  ‘Uncle Harry. She's here — the woman who wanted to talk to you.’

  The moment he turned around, Nora recognised the man who had sold her the suitcase.

  ‘I remember you,’ he said, narrowing his eyes. ‘Two weeks ago. An old leather suitcase with metal fittings. Thirty quid.’

  Nora nodded. ‘Impressive memory.’

  The man on the barstool bowed slightly and extended his hand for a formal greeting. ‘Harry Smithfield. At your service. Listen, why don’t you and your boyfriend sit down and have a pint with me? I’m celebrating the end of my annual yoga retreat.’

  ‘He's not my boyfriend,’ Nora said before Andreas had time to react. ‘But I’m happy to buy you a pint.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Uncle Harry said, eyeing Andreas suspiciously.

  ‘He's a good friend,’ Nora explained.

  Uncle Harry found his smile again. ‘All right then, three Chesil, Polly. Large ones, please.’

  Polly poured the pints, which she then passed across the counter, and Nora took a symbolic sip, although she thought it was a bit early in the day for alcohol.

  Uncle Harry took a sizeable gulp and the foam settled like a blond curtain on his beard. ‘I guess you’re wondering why I drink beer after my yoga retreat?’

  Nora shook her head, but Uncle Harry had already launched into his speech.

  ‘Everything in this life is about balance, you see. Yin and yang. Black and white. Soft and hard. Sweet and sour. Poisoning and detoxing,’ he explained, and took another gulp of beer to illustrate his point.

  ‘I’ve come about the suitcase you sold me. Can you remember how you got it?’

  ‘Yes, but it was one of a kind, if that's what you’re asking. There are no more.’

  ‘No, that's all right. However, inside it I found some pictures, which I imagine the original owner might want back. You wouldn’t happen to have an address, would you?’

  Uncle Harry shook his head. ‘Sorry, no. I bought it at a car boot sale over in Bolton, along with a great pile of other tat.’

  Nora had time to feel despondent, before Andreas got involved in the conversation. ‘Do you remember who sold it to you?’

  ‘Sure I do. It was One-Eyed Joe.’

  ‘And where do you think we might find him?’ Andreas asked in his calm voice.

  ‘I’d think he still goes to the weekly car boot sale in Upper Mullet. You can’t miss it. It's right in the centre of town. But they’ll be closed in less than an hour.’

  They left Harry with two barely touched pints and his warning that it really wasn’t a very good start to the day to be in such a hurry.

  The microscopic green car started immediately and the satnav announced that it would take fourteen minutes to drive to the neighbouring town on the narrow, winding coastal road. What the satnav had failed to take into account was that everyone who lived away from the coast migrated there in the summer heat, while everyone who lived on the coast would head inland to avoid the townies. And that anyone with a tractor considered it their civic duty to take it for a spin every Sunday.

  When they finally reached the car boot sale, the stream of customers had tailed off and several of the stalls were packing up. The church's cake sale looked like it had been a big hit. Two elderly women were busy putting something that looked like a Victoria sponge into a cardboard box, while a middle-aged man looked on with approval.

  The stalls next to it specialised in china dolls, which a small, bent-over lady was busy wrapping gently in pink tissue paper.

  ‘We’re looking for One-Eyed Joe,’ Nora said, and the woman pointed silently to the far corner of the square where a man was busy loading furniture and household items into a battered, orange pick-up truck.

  He sized up Andreas with a single, grim look: ‘Cop.’ It was a statement.

  Nora intervened before the mood soured. ‘We’re here on private business. Nothing official.’

  The man relaxed somewhat, but carried on working.

  ‘Harry Smithfield,’ Nora began.

  ‘Yes, what about him?’

  ‘You sold him some goods about a month ago.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Including a suitcase?’

  ‘Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,’ the man said in a solemn voice and turned his back to them to put a box on to the bed of the pick-up.

  ‘How did you get the suitcase?’

  ‘Don’t remember.’

  His answer was uttered too quickly to sound convincing. Andreas rolled his eyes. ‘Listen, we don’t care how you normally get your goods. In fact, we’re not even British. We just happen to be interested in this particular suitcase. So please, how did you get it?’

  The man shrugged and looked straight at Nora, until he was sure that he had her undivided attention. ‘What's in it for me?’

  Nora picked up an incredibly hideous cut-glass sugar bowl. A handwritten price tag on the side announced that One-Eyed Joe believed a gullible tourist would pay seven pounds for the treasure.

  She weighed it in her hand. ‘How about a tenner?’

  Joe picked up her cue. ‘Can’t sell it to you for less than thirty, I’m afraid. It's been in the family for generations.’

  They settled on twenty in the end and when money had changed hands, Joe wrapped the sugar bowl in an old copy of the Daily Telegraph, and leaned towards Nora. His breath reeked of stale tobacco.

  ‘There's a care home over in Farthington. Bloody ugly, great big box on the outskirts o
f the town. I drive past it every week and check their skip. The old folks always think they will fit in more than they really can when they move in. The rooms are small and the carers ruthless. Too much stuff gathers dust, so they make sure to clear out. The skip is behind the building, in the car park. That's where I found the suitcase and some other stuff. Like this beautiful painting,’ he said, pointing to a picture depicting an ominous, dark forest in a winter landscape with a low-hanging sun.

  Andreas was clearly cross as they walked back to the car. ‘Tell me I didn’t just see you hand money to some lowlife of a habitual criminal in return for information?’

  ‘Certainly not. I was only buying you a present. A permanent reminder of this wonderful trip,’ she said, shoving the wrapped sugar bowl at him.

  Then she got into the driver's seat and turned the key before he had time to reply. He got in, a little taken aback, the sugar bowl in his hands. ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘To the care home.’

  15

  Farthington lay a little deeper in the countryside. The care home was right on the edge of the town, and not even the cursive, cast-iron sign entwined with roses declaring that this was the private care home Cedar Residence could lighten up the bleak architecture that served as a reminder than everyone can grow old and frail, and end up in a home where the only care they get is the care they pay for.

  The car park was almost full when Nora turned into it. Sunday was the busiest day of the week for visitors.

  ‘What's our plan now?’ Andreas wanted to know.

  Nora thought about it, then she said: ‘They say honesty is the best policy, but that's not necessarily true when you’re dealing with self-important, British penpushers.’

  She stepped out of the car and smoothed her clothes. ‘I’m guessing it must be William Hickley's mother who ended up here. After all, he's in prison, and I can’t imagine where else the suitcase might have come from.’

  Andreas slammed shut the car door. ‘So now we pay Mrs Hickley a visit, is that what you’re saying?’