Chapter Text
It’s the middle of June, and everything feels exposed. There is a constant stillness in the air during the winters that makes things seem uncomplicated, whereas the increasing light of the summer days acts like a timer. The ever-present sundial counting down to his downfall.
Carl slams shut the case file that he has been reading. He could probably recite the entire thing from memory by now since there’s barely anything in it. Whoever had investigated this case before them clearly didn’t care much about the small details. Or maybe they were just morons.
Carl’s money is on the latter.
“Pull over,” Carl says to Assad who is humming along the car radio. They are currently driving on a winding road towards a small coastal town. Well, if a place that has a population of less than a thousand can even be classified as a town. A village, a rural community, a settlement. Whatever.
Assad glances at him worriedly. “Are you feeling sick?”
“No, I just need a smoke.”
Assad has once again decided that he’s going to quit, so Carl knows that he would get pissed off if he started smoking inside the car. His past attempts to quit have never lasted all that long but for now, Carl has to endure the complaints about the smell.
“You’ve been on edge the entire day. Is it the case that’s worrying you?” Assad asks and unsurprisingly doesn’t stop the car.
Carl shakes his head which is truthful enough. A 70-year-old man disappeared five years ago in the town that they are heading towards. The investigation at the time concluded that he had drowned in the ocean since the last person to see him alive had seen him by the shore. About a month ago his body had been found buried in the forest nearby, and the death was ruled to be caused by a sharp-edged tool, likely an axe.
The case itself is straightforward enough, it’s the investigation that’s the problem.
“The previous people who investigated this crime got barely any information out of the locals,” Rose had told them a couple of days ago in the basement. “Small towns like this, they don’t trust any outsiders, especially not cops. They won’t talk to you.”
“Well, if those people don’t mind living next door to a murderer that’s up to them. That’s the countryside harmony for you.”
“Oh, what should you do? I’m glad you asked, Carl, because I have a solution,” Rose said and started clicking on her computer.
“Did I ask for a solution?” Carl asked Assad who had been scribbling down something in his notebook.
“A local elderly couple is renting a summerhouse ten kilometers away from the town. They offer a free stay there if you are willing to do a little bit of plot maintenance,” Rose continued.
“And you think mowing someone’s lawn is going to make the locals more willing to talk to us?”
“No, of course not. I’m saying that you two are going to go undercover. Gain their trust, be part of the community,” Rose said with a smile, clearly enjoying the situation. “Don’t worry, I have already planned a great backstory for you guys.”
And that’s how they ended up in their current situation.
The cover story that Rose came up with is that Carl is an author suffering from a bad case of writer’s block. Assad is his literary agent who decided that spending some time away from civilization would help with his creativity. Carl has never written anything longer than a police report, but he is pretty sure that’s not how any of that works.
Usually, when he and Assad travel for a case they have separate rooms in the hotels and motels they spend the nights in. This time they have to share a relatively small cabin together, and that particular detail is the reason Carl’s nerves are working overtime.
Assad doesn’t seem all that worried, and Carl wonders why he himself can’t stop thinking about it. Back when he was younger and broke, he had shared an apartment with a couple of his friends. But it has been a long time since he lived with someone else, which could explain his current concerns.
Sometimes, he wishes he was better at lying to himself.
“It’s strange, isn’t it. The Eriksens moved to the town only about a month before Hans’s murder,” Assad says and interjects Carl’s musings. “Do you think he managed to piss someone off in such a short time or was he just a randomly selected victim?”
“Former elementary school teacher who spends his retirement days fishing doesn’t seem like a man with a lot of enemies. But everybody has secrets,” Carl says and looks out of the window. They are driving next to a coast now, and the sea fills the horizon. The surface of the water is calm, and the sunlight is reflecting off it.
Assad hums, noncommittal, and doesn’t continue the conversation.
Soon they are driving through a small village. Colorful houses surround them from every direction. They drive past a church, a grocery store, and a gas station. A couple of people are walking on the street, but otherwise the place seems almost deserted.
“This place creeps me out,” Assad says.
“Really? You aren’t a fan of the countryside?” Carl asks with a dry tone.
“No, and I know that you aren’t either. In places like this people actually interact with their neighbors.”
“And?”
“And, you have lived in the same place for years and probably don’t even know the name of the person who lives in the house next to you.”
“That’s called living in a city, people mind their own business.”
“Not necessarily. I talk to my neighbors,” Assad says as he turns to a small gravel road.
“I’m aware,” every time Carl visits Assad’s apartment there is somebody in the stairwell who Assad stops to have a conversation with. These days the residents even greet Carl by name, as if him being Assad’s friend makes him automatically part of the community. It’s sort of nice, but he would never admit that to Assad.
The GPS informs them about reached destination as they pull in front of a red wooden house. When they step out of the car, an elderly woman opens the front door and waves at them.
“You must be Carl and Assad,” the woman yells and starts shuffling towards them slowly, her steps short and unbalanced.
“Yes, that’s right. Lene Johansen? I think we talked on the phone two days ago,” Assad replies and moves to meet the woman in the middle. Carl stays where he is and leans against the car.
“I hope there wasn’t any trouble finding this place. How are you two?”
“We are fine. Thank you for letting us stay in the cabin,” Assad says, polite as always.
“It’s more help to us, trust me. We keep the cabin for our son, but he lives far away and can’t maintain the place because of it. Me and my husband Erik used to take care of it, but at this age it’s quite difficult,” Lene says and trails off for a moment.
Assad is about to reply, but suddenly Lene turns to Carl and starts talking again. “But how exciting that an author is staying there now! Have you written any books that I might have read?”
“Probably not,” Carl says. He really needs that smoke as soon as possible.
“Carl is very private; he writes under a pseudonym. Mostly science fiction books,” Assad interjects quickly, and Lene turns her gaze from Carl to Assad.
“Oh, I see! Well, that’s not a genre I’m very familiar with. I’m more partial to horror,” Lene smiles at Assad. Then she seems to remember a key that is on her hand and pushes it towards him. “I’m sorry, you must want to rest after the trip, and here I am, holding you two up. Take this key, and if you two have any questions please don’t hesitate to call us.”
The two of them exchange a couple more words that Carl tunes out. There is a man standing by the window of the house, presumably Erik Johansen. He and Carl maintain eye contact for a moment before the man pulls the curtains shut.
Carl turns his gaze in the other direction. The sun is high on the sky and he can feel its warmth on his skin. Luckily the sea breeze is cooling the air, even though there is a forest between the town and the shore.
As soon as they are back inside the car, Carl turns to Assad. “Science fiction?”
“I figured that answer would be the best way to make her stop asking questions. And please try to be nice, we need these people to talk to us openly,” Assad says and shoots one of his trademark exasperated looks toward Carl.
“We need to check the place in the forest where the body was found,” Carl says, choosing to ignore Assad’s remark. “And question the locals. It will probably be better if we split up for that. We can cover more ground, and it will look less suspicious.”
“Alright.”
The victim’s wife, Marie, still lives in here. Her statement in the file from the previous investigation doesn’t give much of an insight into the case. Hans hadn’t had any disputes with anybody and hadn’t acted differently during the days before the murder. Marie and Hans had moved into the town because Hans’s parents had once lived here, and Hans had wanted to retire somewhere where he could see the sea. At the time of the murder, the two of them hadn’t known anybody in the town.
On the morning of his disappearance, he had told Marie that he would go to fish by the shore. That was the last time Marie had seen Hans. She had called the police the next day, but the body was never found. Not until this year, anyway.
Two witnesses, Niels Dahl and Mette Olsen, had seen Hans that day near the shore with his fishing gear. There is a pier there that can be reached by a short walk through the forest. A couple of rowing boats are tied to that pier, and the local fishermen like to use them. That was the last place Hans had been seen alive.
“Here we are,” Assad announces. The car has stopped moving, and Carl can see a small cabin in front of him.
As Carl steps outside, it becomes clear why the Johansens are renting this place for free.
The nature is a vicious neighbor. The grass is slowly but surely starting to gain back the areas it was once eradicated from. The paint is chipping from the garden furniture, and the chairs look like they will break if you even look at them for too long. The cabin has been built by a small lake, and there is a pier that is half-submerged in the water.
“Talk about getting in touch with nature,” Assad says with a grimace and walks to the back of the car to pick up his bag from the trunk.
“Rose called this a little bit of plot maintenance.”
“Well, some people say that gardening is therapeutic,” Assad says and starts to walk towards the cabin. “This could be good for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Carl says and hauls his own bag over his shoulder before he slams the trunk shut.
Assad just shrugs his shoulders and inserts the key into the front door.
Fortunately, the inside of the cabin is in slightly better shape than the outside. There is a living room with a ratty couch, a television and a fireplace. A small kitchen is connected to it, and Carl sees two doors at the opposite walls of the kitchen. The bathroom is right next to the front door.
Assad walks to the kitchen sink and opens the faucet. “Lucky. The plumbing still works.”
“Are you sure there aren’t any motels around?” Carl steps inside one of the doors that is linked to the kitchen. Two twin beds are situated at the opposite ends of the room, and there is less than a meter of separation between them.
The other bedroom is even worse. There is a one bunk bed and a massive wooden cabinet inside. The bed is clearly meant for children, and the mattresses look like they have been loaned from the drunk tank.
“Looks like we are going to have to share a room,” Assad says and dumps his bag on the bed farthest away from the door. “I hope you don’t snore.”
This is bad. Carl contemplates sleeping on the couch for a moment, but the pros outweigh the cons. His back would complain for a month after that, it’s just not worth it.
“Did you piss off Rose somehow?”
“People pay a lot of money for these kinds of cottages. Stop complaining,” Assad is tinkering with the light switch, and suddenly the lamp on the ceiling turns on. “And there’s electricity, too. You know, this situation really could be worse.”
Carl doesn’t share Assad’s optimism. The sooner they can close this case, the better. He sits on the edge of the bed, and the mattress creaks loudly, almost as if it’s voicing its sympathies for Carl.
***
The days are longer during the summer, but eventually the night still arrives.
Carl is staring at the ceiling of the cabin from his bed. An ant is making its way from one side to the other, and Carl is trying to keep track of it in the dark. Assad keeps tossing and turning next to him. The sound is deafening in the otherwise silent house.
“Stop moving,” Carl snaps eventually.
“This bed is sagging in the middle, I feel like I’m sleeping at an angle,” Assad says and turns around once more.
“Who’s complaining now?”
Assad sighs tiredly but doesn’t continue the argument.
The ant has almost reached the other side, and Carl wonders if they need to buy some pesticide. Maybe insects are just part of the deal if you live in the middle of forest. It’s not like he has any experience, considering he has spent his entire life in a city.
Meanwhile, Assad’s breathing has turned heavy next to him. He’s fallen asleep.
Carl wonders what was the last time he slept in the same room with someone else. It must have been years ago, with Vigga. This whole thing feels strangely intimate.
Carl remembers the time right after he had gotten released from the hospital after the shooting, the time after Vigga had left him. The bedroom had felt so empty when he was the only one sleeping in it, when he couldn’t hear someone else’s breathing or feel their warmth.
How long did it take for him to get used to the loneliness?
Assad mumbles something in the dark. His back is turned towards Carl, and Carl can’t understand what he is saying.
“What?”
Assad doesn’t reply, and his breathing is still heavy. He is talking in his sleep, Carl realizes.
It might be in Arabic, and that’s the reason Carl can’t decipher the words. Maybe tomorrow he should ask what language Assad dreams in.
But as soon as that thought crosses Carl’s mind, he immediately rejects it. They don’t talk about stuff like that.
After this case is over, it’s better if he forgets small details like Assad’s sleep-talking. Hopefully there is a store that sells alcohol in the town. He’s going to need it to get through the upcoming nights.
***
The next morning, he and Assad drive back to the town. Carl can barely keep his eyes open. He didn’t sleep much last night, and the cottage has no coffee maker.
“Remember, be nice to the people,” Assad says to him as they step out of the car.
They agreed earlier that it would be better to separate for the investigation. Assad is going to go and talk with the people in the coffee shop, and Carl will walk around the town square.
“Call if you get anything,” Carl replies and digs his pockets for a lighter and a cigarette.
The streets of the town are as quiet as they were yesterday. A middle-aged woman is walking her dog in the distance, and Carl starts to walk towards her.
The thing is, he knows how to be a detective. There is a certain script that he can follow when he interviews suspects and witnesses. But undercover is different. How do people normally start conversations with strangers?
“Hello,” Carl says to the woman with the dog. The dog is one of those tiny ones, the kind that Carl sees a lot around Copenhagen. Their barking is painfully high-pitched, and sure enough, as soon as Carl gets near it starts to produce that annoyingly familiar noise.
The woman gives him a curt nod before she starts pulling the dog’s leash and walking away. Carl doesn’t bother to continue the conversation and instead continues his walk.
“Hey, are you that writer?” He hears a voice behind him after walking for a while.
Carl turns around and there is an elderly woman with a walker making her way towards him.
“I just don’t recognize you, and Lene told me that a couple of men are staying in her cabin. I assume you are one of them,” she says as she reaches Carl.
“Sure,” Carl grunts.
“But it’s pointless to try to maintain that place. Everybody else other than Lene knows that her son is never coming back,” the woman says and shakes her head disapprovingly.
Carl furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, the last time anybody saw her son in this town was about twenty years ago,” the woman replies. “Lene keeps talking about him coming back, but we all know it’s not happening. Young people these days, they have no sense of duty.”
As Carl is listening to the woman’s ramblings, he hears a noise further down the road. Another woman is cycling towards them. He has stared at the case file enough to recognize her as Marie Eriksen, the victim’s wife. This is a person he actually needs to talk to.
Carl turns towards the woman with a walker. “I have been meaning to ask. Any good biking routes around here?”
He points vaguely towards Marie Eriksen’s fading silhouette. The woman turns towards where he is gesturing, and the look on her eyes turns from sharp to sad.
“Oh, that’s just Marie. There is a small hill with a viewing point towards the sea a couple of kilometers in that direction. She bikes there every morning.”
That’s convenient. He should go there tomorrow and try to talk with the widow. Or maybe Assad should be the one to do it.
“It’s tragic. Her husband was murdered, you know,” the woman says.
“I’m sorry to hear that. By who?” Carl asks, weighing ignorance.
“Well, that’s the thing! They never caught the person. If you ask me, it has something to do with money, that’s what today’s world is always about,” the woman says and starts walking away from Carl, mumbling something to herself.
Hans Eriksen wasn’t a rich man, and according to the file nothing had been stolen from him. He was also quite stingy and didn’t like to gamble. Strike one for the town gossip.
Carl is about to start walking again when his phone rings.
“Yes?”
“Mette Olsen has disappeared a couple of weeks ago,” Assad says through the phone. “I just talked with Emil, the two of them grew up together, and apparently they worked together in this coffee shop for a brief period.”
“Mette Olsen? I thought she had moved out of this town four years ago?” She was one of the last people to see Hans alive.
“Apparently so, but nobody has seen her for weeks,” Assad replies. “I already called Rose, she will try to contact the people investigating her disappearance.”
“That’s good. Anything else?”
“That’s it for now, but Emil told me he would show me the town and introduce some people to me, so maybe more information later today,” Assad says.
Emil, as in the guy from the coffee shop? What’s there to show about the town anyway, it’s a one street.
“Why would he do that?” Carl asks.
Carl can hear Assad’s tinny sigh through the phone’s speaker. “I don’t know, Carl. Sometimes people try to make others feel welcome.”
Before Carl can reply, there is a beeping sound that signals the end of the call. He shoves his phone back into a pocket and continues his walk.
***
The rest of the day is largely unproductive in terms of the investigation. He and Assad go back to the cabin and, on Assad’s insistence, start to actually do some yard work. Currently, Carl is in the middle of ripping some of the overgrown grass off the ground with a rake, and Assad is trying to fix the pier with the wooden planks he bought from the town.
“I need to go back to the town this evening,” Assad says suddenly.
“Okay,” Carl’s plans for the evening involve trying to get drunk enough before the night so he could fall asleep faster than yesterday, and luckily he doesn’t need Assad for that.
“Emil invited me to play some disc golf.”
What the fuck?
“Since when have you started playing disc golf?” Carl stops his raking and looks at Assad disbelievingly.
“I don’t play it, but we are undercover right now. I’m trying to gather information. And apparently there is a course nearby.” Assad says but doesn’t lift his eyes from the pier, or the hammer that he is holding.
“And you think you are going to get that information by throwing around a frisbee?”
“If you want to come with, you can just ask,” Assad says and finally looks up.
“Thanks, I would rather walk in the sea.”
For a moment, Assad looks like he is about to say something. His eyes linger on Carl’s face, searching. But then the moment passes, and he turns back to his work. Carl starts raking again, and if he is using slightly more force than before…well. Nobody is calling him out on it.
Later that evening Carl is sitting on the porch, holding a bottle of whiskey in his hand. It’s not even that dark outside, it never is during the summer. Just endless starless nights. Assad hasn’t come back yet.
There are certain things he only allows himself to admit when his blood alcohol level surpasses a certain limit. His love for Assad is one of them.
For a long time, he mistook the emotion for loneliness. It was nice to have someone in his life who was smart, patient, and loyal. Carl had never been good with people, but with Assad most things felt uncomplicated. He liked hanging out with him, even at the times when they just sat next to each other in silence.
But it was deeper than being lonely. There are times when he wakes up in the middle of the night, choking on all the unsaid words between them. Times where he feels like his emotions are burning him from the inside.
He thinks about the time in the hospital. I need you. Maybe a more accurate phrase would be I don’t think I can handle my life without you again.
But it makes no difference. His love has never led to anything good. Love is Hardy paralyzed on his hospital bed, the drained look in Vigga’s eyes, Assad bleeding out. He could draw a Venn diagram between love and violence, and it would be a perfect circle.
When he goes to sleep the room feels too quiet. Surely one night is too short of a time to get used to someone’s presence. Even the ants have disappeared somewhere.
Some time later, the front door opens. Carl listens as Assad walks around the house for a moment until he enters the bedroom.
“Well, did you get any new information?”
“Go to sleep, Carl,” Assad says. He sounds tired.
“That’s what I figured.”
Soon after that, Carl finally falls asleep.