Invisible Murder

ÁNDOR’S LEFT HAND was the only thing tying him to reality. He wanted to disappear into the black fogs that shrouded his consciousness, but the aching pulse in his hand was an anchor that wouldn’t let go. He was stuck, even though it had been hours—he had no sense of how many—since Tommi had grabbed hold of his hand and yanked it free from the nails which were still lodged in the floorboard. No messing around with pliers or a hacksaw, just a hard, wet yank that unfortunately hadn’t even made him faint.

He was in a room next to the eggplant-colored one, lying on a rug that smelled strongly of brown Labrador retriever. In the adjoining living room he could hear Tommi and Frederik arguing over breakfast. He had figured out why they spoke English together. Tommi wasn’t Danish. According to Frederik he was a “Finnish pea brain.” Can’t you get it into that Finnish pea brain of yours that.…

Frederik had showed up again an hour ago with pastries, Nescafé, juice, and newspapers, after having been home to spend the night with his wife and those two point five kids in Søllerød.

“Right, let’s plan this,” he had said in an enthusiastic tone, as if they were going to organize an orienteering activity for the local Boy Scout troop. But the “Be Prepared!” mood had quickly turned belligerent.

“… of course I want the money,” Frederik snapped at Tommi. “I’ve got bills to pay, the Valby place is a dead loss now, and this dump is useless as long as that thing is out in the garage. And in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re having an economic downturn.”

“So what’s the problem? We can dump the damn thing in a creek somewhere and be left with fuck-all, or we can dump it on the buyer and walk away with a cool half million. And if you really need to play the good citizen, we can always just call the cops later.”

“The problem, you dimwit, is that we don’t have a buyer. I drove past that nurse’s building, and the whole street is full of police and cordons. She’s the only one who knows where that Gypsy’s stupid jacket is.”

“Couldn’t we just sell it to someone else?”

“Do you know anyone who wants to buy a can of hot cesium? By all means, speak up if you do.”

It was quiet in the living room for a few seconds.

“Why didn’t you get milk?” Tommi complained. “You know I don’t drink it black.”

“Shut up, Tommi. You should be happy I even brought food.” Silence again. Then a newspaper rustling. “Holy shit,” Frederik said.

“What?”

“That’s her. It has to be!”

“Who?”

Frederik didn’t answer him. Instead there was a scraping sound from a table or a chair, and a few seconds later, Frederik was bending over Sándor.

“Look!” he said and thrust the front page of the newspaper right in Sándor’s face. “Is that her?”

Sándor reluctantly opened his eyes. The front page of the paper proclaimed something or other dramatic in big red letters, but it was the picture next to the headline that Frederik was frenetically jabbing at with his index finger.

An official looking photo of a serious woman with short, dark hair and intense gray eyes. It was her. The nurse who had patched up his eyebrow. The nurse who had his jacket.

“Well?” Frederik poked him insistently on the shoulder. It sent a wave of pain all the way out to his fingers and back again.

“Uh, maybe. Yes,” he said, just to make the man go away.

Frederik went back to the living room and slapped the newspaper down in front of Tommi.

“Well, at least now we know where she is,” he said.