Fear Of Broken Glass

New Faces

Almquist placed his holdall on the wet ground and removed his police ID, holding it out at arms length, long enough to be sure they had registered it. The younger stood closest, making guarded eye contact with first Almquist, then Vikland.

'Are you living here?' Elin Vikland said in English.

'Renting,' he replied.

The older, fitter one was looking at her with a guarded, reticent expression. Almquist studied them both, looking from one to the other, waiting, holding back. He turned to the pleasant looking younger man before him, the one holding the candle-holder with a handle. 'Hasse Almquist. Swedish district police. And you are?'

'Daniel, Daniel Hanson.' He said, looking uncertainly at his companion.

'Can I come in?' Almquist said awkwardly, in passable English. He looked up and around at the cottage then at the girl.

She was above average in height; shoulder length, carefree blonde hair, wearing a red leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans that didn't leave a lot to the imagination. Another male followed; older: blonde hair, relatively good looking and clean-shaven, smelling of aftershave.

'What's going on?' he said.

Almquist turned to look towards the men, eyes asking unspoken questions. It was the girl who approached him first, lifting her head a little to one side, smooth skin still showing traces of a healthy summer tan. She walked forward extending her hand. 'Hey do. Ulrika.'

'Almquist, Örrebrospolicen.' He looked past the Swedish girl to the taller Englishman, standing to one side without introducing himself. He wondered what the connection was as he entered a tidy interior, and aromas of hearty cooking, following the hollow tramp of footsteps on wooden floorboards.

'Justin,' the blonde-haired man, early to mid-thirties said.

Almquist nodded and entered. Within, musty old wood, floor-to-ceiling boarded walls painted white. He stopped in front of dozens of photographs, all of them lost in shadow, all of them old and fading, torn in places even behind the protective layer of glass. He scanned faces, old faces, resting on one face he knew well. He leaned forwards, staring at that face. A face without expression with vague, dead eyes and blonde hair swept to the side, clinging to a sweaty forehead in greasy fingers. Behind him his father, old and gray, stooping forwards. Gotfrid, it was. He wore the same look of contempt as his son had done. He raised his head, his heart skipping a beat. In an instant, he turned to follow the taller man, holdall in hand, making eye contact. 'And who are you?'

'Conrad Baron,' he replied without turning around.

He had a way of walking, erect, with long slow yet purposeful strides. Dark blue denims and thick hiking socks, crowned with thick dark hair through which fine strands of gray wove itself like thin wires of silver.

They walked in single file to the end of the corridor, towards candlelight, dark as it was. Ahead, an old pine stair ascending to bedrooms above, a panel door open, such that the upstairs rooms could be closed off to conserve heat. To the left they passed a simple living room, noting the glowing embers of a wood fire. The room was barely furnished smelling of stale tobacco – and cannabis: a few pieces of stripped pine furniture on yellow floorboards; a seventies-style three person sofa; a coffee table littered with books and papers, two lounge chairs facing the sofa, another on the end opposite the fireplace.

Almquist retreated and continued to where the man called Conrad Baron stood waiting for him. Almquist placed his holdall on the floor, then followed them into the kitchen. Inside a fourth male, younger than the last, older than the girl: mid twenties, heavily built. Long dark hair tied in a ponytail, dark eyes, darker face heavy with stubble fortified by an air of youthful arrogance. Almquist nodded receiving a nod in return, the girl and her companions arriving next, Vikland last.

There were candles on the table, an old-style cast iron kitchen stove, the smell of wood smoke.

'How many people are staying here?' Vikland asked.

The lack of any electrical appliances confirmed his first assumption regarding electricity.

Conrad stopped and turned to face her. 'Five, six.'

At the back of the room, a rocking chair placed next to a large pine table littered with an overflowing ashtray, empty beer bottles and dirty plates. Above, a candelabra suspended on small chains from a hook, the stumps of three candles and three new ones, all of them lit, sending a dancing halo of light across an old grease-stained pine ceiling.

'Five or six?' Almquist said.

Conrad Baron paused, thinking, then looked from Vikland to the older, gray-bearded detective in his long gray overcoat. 'Five. Look, do you mind telling me what this is all about?'

Almquist removed a worn, curled notebook with a familiarity that could have been practiced, but wasn't.

'Is this where Thomas Denisen is staying?'

Daniel looked across in wonder at the older Conrad Baron. 'Yes – why? What's going on?'

Too many stories, too many ghosts; the corpse of Thomas Denisen placed in the sordid line of now five, similar murders. Each murder displaying the same methods of mutilation. His ghosts. Except, Thomas Denisen was male, his body broken. Almquist glanced knowingly at Vikland, then turned to them, placing the tip of his pen against the faint blue-lined pad. 'Names.' He looked up.

Which one was it? And more importantly. Why?

There had been too much failure and too many dead. Too much injustice... finally, he smiled, 'And some coffee would be nice.'

And so it begins.

***

Like this scene? Please vote!

more about The Elements on https://elementamundi.com