The Hanging Girl

33

The drive along the dirt road to the farm was the ultimate challenge for the worn-out police car, and not least for Assad’s jaw, which bounced up and down like an out-of-control yo-yo.

Scattered along the rain-filled, deep tire tracks there were monoliths with carved runes and colored Celtic and Norse symbols. There could be no doubt that this was the entrance to a world parallel to the one where politicians strutted in borrowed plumes and people bought even the most obvious lies.

As a result, the farm itself, with its traditional four wings, was overall disappointing. No Viking gates and oak timbers or anything else Norse, only the sign above the gate suggesting that they weren’t about to meet ordinary farmers after all.

Einherjer Farm, read the sign.

“Hi. What does that mean?” Carl asked a woman who was crossing the yard. He hadn’t seen someone like her for a long time, straight out of the seventies with loose-hanging breasts under her T-shirt and wild, unruly hair.

“Hi.” She smiled and shook their hands. “Well, the einherjer were warriors in Valhalla who defended the gods against the jötnar. So there could hardly be a more fitting name for us, seeing as we’ve all been soldiers or married to soldiers in Afghanistan at Camp Bastion. My name is Gro, by the way,” she said. “I knew you’d be coming, because they called from the Holistic Garden Center, whatever that is. Bue, my husband, is on his way.”

He was a bear of a man, but apart from the thin braid in his beard, and a couple of huge tattoos twisting round his bare arms and reappearing as flames on his neck, this man looked nothing like what Carl imagined the leader of a so-called blótlaug would look like. No Viking horns or sheepskin clothes, just the usual farmer’s outfit: Kansas overalls and the compulsory green Wellingtons.

“No, I don’t personally know the man you’re talking about,” he said after they’d stated their business. “But Søren Mølgård has talked a little about the time when he was on Bornholm, based on what his tired-out brain can handle. Enough anyway to get the idea that it was a pretty interesting time that I would’ve liked to have been part of, if I’d been old enough.” He laughed, leading them across the yard and out through a gate to the other side of the wings.

Carl looked around. It was hard to see how the symbol-laden monoliths on the road to the farm were connected to this ordinary bit of Denmark. Everything here bordered on being cliché and dull: slurry tank, compost heap, and scratched agricultural machinery being operated by men who looked nothing like Rambo or Thor, the god of thunder.

“Everyone here is a member of our blótlaug. We aren’t associated with Forn Siðr, though, if you know what that is. We interpret the Asa-faith in our own way. And even though I’m their goði, we’re all equal here.”

Carl tried to smile. He had no idea what the man was talking about.

“But you do arrange blót?” asked Assad.

Carl turned toward him. Was he at it, too?

Bue nodded. “Yes, four times a year, at equinox and solstice. We drink a few horns of mead—actually, we brew it ourselves. Perhaps you’d like to take a couple of bottles with you?”

Carl gave a very vague nod. At least he knew what mead was. And it really tasted like piss.

“It’s very different from the dishwater you can buy in shops,” said Bue, as if he’d read Carl’s mind. He turned toward the people. “Any of you seen Søren?” he shouted.

Someone pointed at a smallholding behind a windbreak, half in ruins.

“There’s smoke coming from the chimney, so he’s probably in today; he usually is,” explained Bue.

Carl nodded. “But why is he staying here with you? He hasn’t been in Afghanistan like the rest of you, has he?”

“No. But Søren’s son Rolf was with us at the Camp. Rolf was a good soldier, but also reckless and unlucky, and fell victim to a roadside bomb. When we returned home, Søren came to us in despair. I warn you, he’s a bit odd.”

Assad turned around to watch the people working for a minute. A gentle rain had started to fall again. Apparently it didn’t bother them. “I understand you’re all former soldiers. So why did you come here?”

It was clearly a question Bue had heard dozens of times before.

“We’d already founded a blótlaug at the Camp, so it seemed the obvious thing to do. I’ve practiced the Asa-faith since I was a boy, and out there in the war zone I found comfort in my rituals. It was obvious that I got along better on a day-to-day basis than most of the others, so it wasn’t long before there were many of us who found peace in the faith. When you’re up against a movement that builds on faith as much as the Taliban does, quite honestly you begin to feel poor without something, especially when you’re so exposed and far from home. So we rooted ourselves in the past that we’ve inherited in the North. Does that make sense?”

He pointed at a stack of wooden boards that led across a muddy ditch to Søren Mølgård’s small shanty, then turned to face Carl.

“Without our faith and the sense of community it gives us, I’m sure some of us would never have come back, at least not as whole people. Now we’re a family, and the family of Asa-faith is growing across the country. I’m actually talking on the radio about it in a couple of days. I have a sense that you belong to that part of the Danish population that’s struggling to accept people like us, so you’d be welcome to come along. People who call the show could ask what you think, and you could ask them anything. If you’re lucky, someone might be able to help you find the man you’re looking for, if Søren can’t.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know.” Carl hesitated. To be a guest on a radio show with an Asa follower in order to gather police information? He could just imagine the reaction at HQ if he did.

“So you’re professional soldiers?” asked Assad.

“Most of us, yes. I was a captain, and there are other officers here, too, although most of the people on the farm were PFCs.”

“A captain! So you’ve seen your share of the hot spots, I imagine?” said Assad.

Bue nodded. “I have, in fact.” He gave Curly a friendly smile, but then a furrow suddenly creased his forehead, as if he was trying to remember something specific at the sight of Assad without being able to.

Assad turned toward Søren Mølgård’s house. “He’s standing in the window watching us. Have you told him we’d be coming?”

“No, I didn’t have time. Sorry.”

* * *

Carl would’ve probably preferred that the red-eyed and quite spaced-out Søren Mølgård had been warned beforehand. In any case, he seemed more scared than was good for him when Bue introduced them as investigators from Copenhagen Police Headquarters.

He glanced around his small, low-ceilinged, hash-smelling living room, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, probably checking if there were any drugs lying around.

“I see you smoke a few chillums now and them,” said Carl dryly. Now at least the cat was out of the bag.

“I guess, but I don’t sell it, if that’s what you think. I grow a bit out the back, but not enough to . . .”

“Hey, relax, Søren,” interrupted Bue. “They aren’t from narcotics. They’re from homicide in Copenhagen.”

The man seemed a little distant due to the significant influence of his homegrown crops, but the word “homicide” almost seemed to make his heart stop. Not very unusual, if you thought about it.

“Homicide?” He stared into space before nodding in recognition, a hint of seriousness showing on his face. “Is this about Rolf?” he asked, his lips trembling. “Was he killed by his own?”

Carl frowned. The man must be fairly gone.

They asked him to sit, and explained their business, which didn’t seem to calm him.

“I don’t understand. I don’t know anyone called Alberte, except that singer. Why are you asking me about it?”

“We’re asking if you know where Frank is now, and what he’s doing.”

He turned his head toward Bue, shrugging. “I won’t be coming out in the field today, Bue. I’ve got a bit of trouble with my lungs, you see.”

“That’s all right, Søren, but you might want to answer the question for the police.”

He looked confused. “About Frank? Yes, that’s his name. And he was a jerk, I think. I haven’t quite made up my mind yet.”

“What do you mean?” Carl nodded to Assad, who showed that he was ready with his notebook.

“He always had to dictate everything. I didn’t want to put up with that, so I left.”

“When did you leave?”

“When we returned to Zealand. He wanted to go to Sweden or Norway, do something that would earn him some money. A sort of course center. Can you imagine me out in the woods or the wilderness? Ha!”

“A course center. What do you mean by that?”

“Just somewhere he would get to decide everything.”

“Do you know what he calls himself nowadays, or where he ended up?”

He shook his head, looking longingly at the silver foil and the cigarettes on the desk.

“Do you think it might help you to remember if you rolled a joint and took a puff?” asked Assad, but Bue shook his head. Apparently that wasn’t worth wishing for.

“Frank was only interested in Frank,” he said. “He didn’t give a damn about anything else.”

“Not even women?”

At this, the man let out a deep sigh. He seemed to think that was enough of an answer.

“Do you remember if he had relationships with any of the girls?”

“Relationships!” he snorted. “He screwed them all, but relationships had nothing to do with it. That’s just how it was.”

“Can you remember their names?”

He closed his eyes halfway. It wasn’t possible to see whether he was thinking or on his way to dreamland.

“They were called all kinds of insignificant shit,” he drawled. Then he drifted off.

* * *

“I’m sorry,” said Bue, handing them a couple of soda bottles filled with golden liquid as they said their good-byes by the car. “Actually, it’s one of the few times I’ve heard Søren answer any questions. He’s probably severely brain damaged. We’ve discussed whether it’s because of all the joints or if it’s something else he uses. We tend to think it’s the latter. He’s simply ruined most of his brain cells.”

Carl nodded. For some reason, the notion of dead brain cells made him think of Sammy and Ronny. But the cremation service was tomorrow, and a long drive up to his family in Vendsyssel, and the professor who’d taught Frank way back, lay before them.

“You’re still welcome to participate in my radio show if you’d like,” said the giant. “You might be lucky. I’d be surprised if there wasn’t at least one listener who had some useful information.”