Fatal Crossing Read online

  She tried making conversation about the weather to cover up her nerves, but the driver answered her reluctantly with monosyllabic grunts, and soon the car was quiet. Not even the radio was on. There was only the faint rumble of the engine and the small, hard slam of raindrops hitting the windscreen. And then the monotone squeal of windscreen wipers that had seen better days.

  Nora had only visited Patrick a few times. She thought the drive from the station took about fifteen minutes, and tried reconstructing the route from memory. It was down a road where there was a pub with a horse — or was it a unicorn — on the sign. And after that there was a big black barn and a side road.

  When they had been driving for what felt like forever, Nora was relieved to see the pub sign through the now steamed-up windows. Nearly there. From here it was only another five minutes’ drive, she thought. The next moment they passed The Unicorn & Maiden.

  ‘Hey? Don’t we turn off here?’

  The driver made no reply.

  Nora tried again, a little louder this time: ‘I think we were supposed to have turned back there!’

  The man stayed silent, but she thought he stepped harder on the accelerator because the car gained speed. Cold sweat erupted while she tried keeping what was left of her nerve intact.

  ‘Hello? Did you not understand the address?’ she tried.

  The driver shrugged and accelerated even more.

  Nora quickly considered her options. The car was going too fast for her to jump out now, but she knew that at some point it would have to slow down on the narrow country road. She discreetly pressed her bags close to her body and tensed her muscles, preparing herself for flight.

  When the car slowed down at a sharp bend, she grabbed the door handle firmly, ready to jump out. The handle clicked impotently. The child lock was on.

  She caught the driver's eye in the rear-view mirror. Her attempt to escape seemed to amuse him. ‘Relax. We’re nearly there,’ he said.

  His voice was strangely distorted, he sounded as if he might be on drugs. Nora wondered if she should pull the handbrake to try to stop the car.

  At that moment her mobile rang. It was Spencer. ‘Miss Sand, where's the fire?’

  Her words stumbled, refusing to arrange themselves in a proper sentence. She didn’t dare tell him about the picture while she was in a car with a madman who was taking her God knows where.

  ‘Track my mobile. It's important!’

  Spencer sounded calm and professional. ‘You need to give me more information before we can —’

  ‘Do it now! It's a matter of life and death,’ she had time to say before the black Toyota pulled up outside Patrick's house.

  The driver turned around and looked at her.

  ‘That’ll be fifteen quid. Sorry for not being more chatty,’ he said, pointing to his cheek, which was swollen. ‘Root canal surgery this afternoon.’

  ‘Miss Sand, what's happening?’ Spencer shouted on the phone.

  ‘Nothing. Forget it. Sorry,’ she said and hung up.

  Nora found twenty pounds and gave it to the driver. He got out of the car and opened the door for her, and soon afterwards she knocked on the front door of the house.

  Her mother opened the door, while the two King Charles spaniels, Whisky and Soda, barked with excitement around her legs. Her hair was artfully styled, her make-up impeccable, and Nora suddenly felt scruffy and unkempt.

  ‘Oh. There you are. We’re just about to sit down for dinner. Why don’t you get yourself a sandwich in the kitchen when things have settled down a bit?’

  Nora nodded.

  Her mother kissed her formally on both cheeks and Nora stood passively on the steps, letting her do it.

  ‘Good. Got to run. The key to the guest cottage is in the green flowerpot next to the door. Patrick has already turned on the heating.’

  In the background Nora could hear male laughter and a couple of chirping female voices. She forced a smile and shuffled across the well-kept yard to the cottage.

  Almost as an afterthought her mother called out: ‘Eh — is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ Nora said mechanically, with no conviction in her voice.

  ‘Right, then we might as well chat over breakfast tomorrow morning, mightn’t we? Good night for whenever you go to bed,’ her mother said, and closed the door so hard that the ring in the mouth of the antique lion doorknocker banged against the heavy oak a couple of times.

  Nora shrugged, picked herself up and entered the cottage. It was clean and dry and there was a scent of lavender. There was no Hix, and there was Wi-Fi. That was all she needed right now.

  She took a shower and walked back across the yard and into the kitchen where she made herself a couple of cheese sandwiches which she smothered in Patrick's home-made apple chutney. She put them on to a plate, stuffed a couple of apples from the fruit bowl into her pocket, and went back to the cottage to work.

  She realised that in all the confusion, she had completely forgotten to tell Spencer about the picture, so she tried calling him again. No luck. She sent him a short text with the message: ‘Have been threatened. Possibly by Hix. Call me.’

  Then she opened her laptop and tried organising her notes from her visit to the Register for Missing Persons.

  Two hours later she woke up on the bed, fully clothed and with the laptop still resting on her lap. She shut it, brushed her teeth, undressed, and fell back into a dreamless sleep.

  X

  Around eight o’clock the next morning when she tiptoed into the kitchen to make herself the first cup of coffee, only Whisky and Soda were up and about. Upstairs was quiet, and from the living room came the stale stench of sour wine, abandoned brandy glasses and the cigars Patrick tended to produce on festive occasions. Nora made herself toast with marmalade, looked in vain for coffee, and ended up brewing herself a strong cup of Earl Grey with milk and plenty of sugar.

  Then she went back to the cottage and sat down at the small antique bureau that had to make do as her desk, and reviewed once more her notes from yesterday.

  It didn’t take her long to google the number of Waybridge police, the home base of Dale Moss, who had investigated the case she thought might concern Oluf.

  A woman answered the phone after a few rings.

  ‘Dale Moss?’ she said. ‘He hasn’t worked here for over ten years. What's this about?’

  ‘An old case,’ Nora said.

  ‘Would you like to be put through to his successor?’

  Nora said yes, and soon afterwards she heard a commanding, female voice.

  ‘DC Summers speaking.’

  The woman listened patiently to Nora's account of how she had pursued a lead about a missing Danish man. A man who had never been reported missing admittedly, but it might be possible to solve this mystery now. A chance to replace a question mark with a full stop.

  ‘And how exactly do you think that I can help you, Miss Sand?’

  ‘I thought that perhaps I could stop by and have a look at the file—’

  Summers interrupted her immediately. ‘We’re not allowed to hand them over. I’m sorry. No matter how much I’d like to, they’re not accessible to the public. Unless, of course, you submit a Freedom of Information Request — or you can produce written permission from the man you’re referring to. Though that sounds highly unlikely,’ she said dryly.

  Nora sighed.

  ‘But I can possibly go one better,’ Summers went on.

  ‘How?’ Nora asked expectantly.

  ‘I can arrange a meeting with Dale Moss. He can tell you everything he remembers about the case. He might even be interested in what you have to say. Can you get here by Sunday lunchtime?’

  Nora said yes.

  ‘Every Sunday he has lunch at a small pub called The Three Mermaids as he has done for the last fifteen years, and you can set your watch by the time he arrives. A quarter past one. And he stays for at least an hour.’

  ‘But how can I be sure he’ll even be willing to talk
to me?’

  ‘I’ll ask him to do me a special favour, he won’t mind.’

  ‘Really?’ Nora said, thinking it was a very long drive only to sit in a pub and stare at a retired police officer who refused to utter one word about an old case.

  Summers let out a short laugh. ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure he’ll do it if I ask him. He's my dad, and I usually have Sunday lunch with him, unless I’m on duty. I’ll pull up the file and have a quick look at it. Then I can assist, in case of any ... memory issues.’

  Nora looked up a car rental firm in Exeter and booked a hire car that same morning. There was no point in sitting here staring at Patrick's apple trees all on her own.

  When she went over to the main house with her mug, there was still no one around. She found the number of a taxi firm on the noticeboard and booked a car immediately. Then she wrote a quick note on the back of an open envelope from a pile on the windowsill.

  ‘Thanks for your hospitality. Enjoy the party. Hugs.’

  Fifteen minutes later a different driver pulled up outside, thank God. The dogs barked half-heartedly when Nora locked the door to the cottage and returned the key.

  From the taxi she phoned the Crayfish. She should probably clear the visit with him, and he might already be at the office. For once he wasn’t. Yet still he picked up his phone, panting into the handset.

  ‘I’m making my way up Valby Bakke,’ he announced proudly.

  ‘You’re speaking to me on your bike?’ Nora was taken aback.

  ‘Yes. The kids gave me a hands-free set for my mobile phone for my birthday, so now I can take calls on my mountain bike,’ he explained.

  Nora updated him on the situation.

  ‘How much will it cost us?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘A few thousand kroner, three or four with everything.’

  ‘And you’re sure it's worth it? Does it have legs?’

  Nora hesitated. ‘Well, my gut instinct says yes. I think it's Oluf, and I think there is a connection. But that's as much as I have right now.’

  The Crayfish had stopped panting. Perhaps he had pulled over or stopped at a red light.

  ‘Hmm. OK, go for it. But call me tonight.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And, Sand?’

  ‘Yes?’

  Whatever he wanted to say was drowned by violent hooting.

  ‘Yes, all right, I’ll move. Relax, why don’t you!’ the Crayfish shouted angrily. She could hear him mutter curses under his breath, before addressing her again. ‘Sand, are you still there?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Watch your back. And get me a few lines for the magazine soon, won’t you? You can’t keep running around taking one seaside holiday after another. Ah, that's Washington calling. Talk to you later.’

  And with a beep the Crayfish was gone. Somewhere on a hill in Copenhagen.

  26

  At the car rental counter at Exeter Airport, she was handed the keys to a small, ugly, yellow car.

  The customer service assistant shrugged in her grass-green polyester uniform. ‘We didn’t get much notice,’ she said, while Nora signed the eight places indicated with small crosses by the assistant.

  When she got into the car and tried to find Waybridge on the map of her mobile, a text message arrived. Unknown number. Spencer, most likely.

  Her thumb hovered for a microsecond over the message, before she pressed to open it.

  ‘I’ll get you, you bitch. I always get what I want.’

  Nora felt as if all the blood had drained from her body. Those were the very same words Hix had said to her. The exact same.

  Her hands were trembling when she called Spencer. Voicemail. She left a short message. Completely irrationally she looked over her shoulder and central-locked every door in the car.

  He's not here, she tried telling her pounding heart. Of course he wasn’t. He was rotting in his cell in Wolf Hall. Of course he was. Even so ... She jumped when her mobile rang. It was Spencer calling her back.

  ‘Make it quick. I’m in the middle of something,’ he said brusquely.

  Nora told him about the text message. His initial reaction was scepticism.

  ‘Surely anyone can get your number just by looking at Globalt's homepage? That's how I found it,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘But it's the exact same words,’ she objected. ‘And that's not all -’

  Spencer's voice sounded completely indifferent as he cut her off.

  ‘Miss Sand. You seemed very agitated when we spoke yesterday. And for no reason, as it turned out.’

  ‘Yes, but there's more. Someone left a picture of Jean Eastman at my home address. With a warning written on the back.’

  ‘Anyone could have done that. Those pictures are in the public domain. They can be downloaded from some of the nastier websites,’ Spencer argued.

  Nora tried entering the debate on his terms. ‘Sure, but is it also public knowledge that I’m working on this case?’

  Spencer thought about it for a moment, and took a quick decision. ‘OK. Don’t ask me how because I’ll never tell you, but I’ll get Millhouse to look into it. All right? He’ll call you when he knows something. And let me make one thing clear: Don’t expect me to return any more of your calls this weekend. I have to devote all my time to this investigation,’ he rounded off.

  ‘But we’re working on the same case,’ Nora protested.

  He had already hung up.

  Nora forwarded the threatening text message to Spencer and left the airport. Her hands were still shaking when she changed gear, but she consoled herself with the knowledge that as long as she was on the road, no one could know where she was. Including Hix.

  And yet how was it possible that a man seemingly under such scrutiny was allowed to send a text message? If he could get hold of her mobile number as easy as that, it wouldn’t have presented much of a challenge for him to find her address.

  Then another message arrived. She didn’t recognise the number and had to brace herself before she opened it.

  ‘Millhouse here. Spencer asked me check out the text message you got. The number belongs to a Jimmy F. Archer. No criminal record, but three unpaid parking fines. Mean anything to you?’

  Nora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  She pulled over and pressed ‘call’. Millhouse answered his phone immediately. Nora didn’t even wait for him to introduce himself. ‘Tell me, just what the hell is going on with the British prison system? Jimmy Archer is the moron who is supposed to be guarding Hix! The creep asked me out. Don’t you run any security checks on your staff these days?’ she ranted on. A part of her did know that no one was less to blame than Millhouse, but he happened to be at the other end of the phone right now.

  ‘Nora. I understand that what happened to you is upsetting. But perhaps it's just a spurned man who saw a way of getting his own back,’ Millhouse said to reassure her.

  Nora concluded that this was the kind of brush-off officers were taught during the first thirty minutes of Scotland Yard's hostage negotiation course: show understanding and sympathy. Build trust. Open every sentence with the pointless phrase: I understand ...

  She was not being fobbed off with that.

  ‘Millhouse. I want you to listen to me: he used the exact same words. Exactly the same words as Hix. But Archer wasn’t in the room when Hix spoke them, so how could he have known what Hix said to me? Word for word?’

  Millhouse was silent as he pondered it. ‘There could be all sorts of explanations. Perhaps Hix trusts him.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘All right. Perhaps not. But he could have been eavesdropping.’

  Nora thought about it. ‘OK. I’ll buy that. But I need to know without a shadow of a doubt that Hix is still in prison. Is that something you can check for me?’

  ‘Fair point. I’ll call you back,’ Millhouse said.

  A torturous hour went by.

  She was startled when her mobile rang. Millhouse's voice wa
s professional and reassuring. ‘I made a call to the duty officer at Wolf Hall. He could tell from his computer that Hix, along with all other inmates on his wing, has been in his cell since five minutes past ten last night. The system is automated, and unless something happens, they don’t see any of the prisoners until a headcount and a shift change at twelve thirty today. It's the weekend,’ Millhouse said.

  ‘But what about Archer?’ she asked.

  ‘I examined the data from the text message, and it looks as if it was sent from Wolf Hall, so everything points to Archer being our bad guy. I spoke to the duty manager about it, and he has promised to have a word with Archer when he turns up for his shift this afternoon. Whether or not you wish to report him, his conduct is highly inappropriate. However, his last shift ended at eleven p.m. last night, so there's not much they can do for now.’

  Nora heaved a sigh. ‘All right then.’

  After the call she sat in the car, staring across the fields. That was when it struck her: how could Archer send her a text message from Wolf Hall this morning if he wasn’t at work? Something didn’t add up.

  She called Millhouse back. He didn’t pick up. So she tried Spencer yet again. It went straight to voicemail. This time she didn’t leave a message.

  27

  Back in the car, she re-joined the road and turned on the radio. She didn’t want to listen to jazz, it would remind her too much of Andreas, nor could she be bothered with the news or talk radio, with angry listeners calling in to complain about streetlights being turned off too early, or the shortage of parking spaces in central Stratford. Instead, she found a station that played saccharine love songs interspersed with listeners’ messages to one another. Luuuurve Radio as the presenter called it in a tone that must have been what Barry White sounded like before his voice broke.

  ‘This is a song for Tim from Emma. I miss you every minute and can’t wait until you get home from work tonight,’ the presenter smirked on behalf of Tim before, to Nora's surprise, he played an early song by The Cure. This was preferable to the sickly soundscape of Celine Dion, which was what she had feared. She considered contacting Summers as soon as she reached Waybridge, but decided Summers wouldn’t be in a position to tell her much about the investigation her father and former colleague had handled years ago. Besides, they had already made arrangements to meet tomorrow.