The Living and the Dead in Winsford

55

I’m kept awake by coffee and the fear of getting involved in a crash. It’s a windy and rainy day, and the autobahn northwards through Germany — A2, then A43, then A1, via Münster, Osnabrück, Bremen and Hamburg — is jam-packed with heavy traffic. I don’t think I have ever driven so slowly and carefully in the whole of my life, but the thought of something nasty happening — something that could ruin everything within the space of just a few seconds — feels at times like a noose around my neck. After a few hours the rain develops into sleet, and there is even more need to proceed with caution.

By six o’clock, however, we have passed Hamburg and it has stopped raining. I think it would be as well not to arrive at the ferry terminal too early, and so we allow ourselves an hour-long stop at an Autohof. We go for a little walk, share a bratwurst in the car, and then missus has a coffee in the bar. After filling up with petrol we continue up towards Fehmarn and Puttgarden.

There are about fifty cars waiting at the dock, and it strikes me it’s good that there are so many people wanting to cross over into Denmark. Our ferry is due to depart at 21.00 — departures are a little less frequent as late in the day as this. We start boarding at about ten to. I end up at the very back of a long line of cars next to a wall: that couldn’t be better.

We make our way up to the commercial deck. There are a few restaurants and cafes, shops selling perfumes and spirits and cigarettes, and lots of people who seem to know exactly how they are going to spend the hour or so the crossing will take. Castor and I wander around aimlessly until we walk up a flight of stairs and sit down on a banana-shaped sofa in a sort of lounge. There are about twenty people ensconced in there, and several more coming and going all the time. I check my watch and see that we have been under way for twenty-five minutes.

And right now, I decide, at this very moment as we are sitting here in this most anonymous of places, me on the sofa and Castor on the floor, I shall re-assume my real identity. From now on everything is authentic. My heart starts pounding as I register this fact, but of course none of my fellow passengers notices anything unusual.

Shortly afterwards there is a loudspeaker announcement to the effect that car passengers should return to their vehicles but not start their engines until instructed to do so. I look around somewhat nervously and check my watch again. Then Castor and I make our way down the stairs, and pay a brief visit to one of the restaurants: I look inside and shake my head.

I look at my watch again. Shrug, and find the door leading down to the car deck.

I let Castor into the back seat but don’t yet sit down behind the wheel. A few minutes later the stern ports open and the cars start driving ashore. But not our queue as yet. I remain standing by the car, looking around ostentatiously. I keep checking my watch.

Then I sit down in the driver’s seat, but change my mind and get out again.

The vehicle in front of me, a large German-registered van, sets off. I remain where I am. The queue next to us starts moving. Before long I’m the only one left on the whole of the car deck. A member of the crew wearing an orange jacket comes up and asks if there is anything wrong. Won’t the car start?

I tell him that there’s nothing wrong with the car, but I’m waiting for my husband. I don’t know where he’s got to.

He looks a bit put out.

‘You were supposed to meet at the car, were you?’

He speaks very clear Danish.

‘Yes, I just don’t understand. .’

There’s no fear in my voice yet. It’s too early for that. A trace of worry, perhaps, mixed with a dose of irritation.

‘Just a moment, I’ll fetch my boss.’

Half a minute later an elderly official appears. He has a reddish-brown moustache that looks as if it weighs half a kilo.

‘Your husband’s missing, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And he knows where the car is parked, does he?’

‘Yes. . Yes, he does.’

‘Could he have gone ashore with the foot passengers that don’t have cars?’

His moustache bobs up and down. I say I don’t know.

‘You’d better drive off the ferry — I’ll come with you. Don’t worry, we’ll find him.’

He sits down in the passenger seat. I start the engine and we drive ashore. He points to a low building on the right.

‘Drive in there, and wait for a moment or two.’

He takes out his mobile and talks to a colleague. Then he instructs me to drive to a door where foot passengers are still leaving the ship and taking their seats in a green bus waiting just outside. There are not all that many of them, I notice. Not more than half a bus-full. The driver is standing outside, smoking.

The moustache-man gets out of the car but tells me to stay inside.

‘Sit here and see if your husband comes out through that door. You could take a look into the bus if you like.’

He points, and I nod. I get out of the car and peer into the bus. No sign of Martin. I go back to the car and wait.

After about ten minutes the terminal is empty. No passengers, and the bus has left. The moustache-man comes back accompanied by a man in uniform — I assume it’s a police officer.

‘You haven’t seen him?’

‘No. .’

My voice is barely audible. I’m really shaken now.

‘Come along with us, please, and we’ll look into the matter.’

It’s the police officer who says that. I notice that he is almost speaking Swedish.

‘Can I take my dog with me?’

He nods. ‘Of course.’

We sit in a small, brightly lit room in the terminal building. Me, Castor, the policeman who almost speaks Swedish and a young female police officer with a ponytail who looks so Danish that she would be a suitable model for a recruitment campaign. I am deeply shaken and hardly need to put on a show. I’m trembling so much that I have to lift my coffee mug with both hands.

‘Let us now take it calm,’ says the female police officer. ‘I am called Lene.’

She is also trying to speak some kind of Scandiwegian.

‘Knud,’ says her colleague. ‘If you are wondering why I almost speak Swedish, it’s because I worked in Gothenburg for ten years. Can you tell us what has happened?’

I take a few deep breaths and try to get a grip on myself. ‘My husband,’ I say. ‘I don’t know what’s happened to him.’

Knud nods. ‘What’s your names? Both yours and your husband’s? You’re on your way home to Sweden, I gather.’

I say that’s correct. That we’ve been in Morocco for a few months and are now returning to Stockholm.

‘Your names?’ says Lene. She is sitting with a notebook and pencil, ready to write down everything I say.

‘My name’s Maria Holinek. My husband is called Martin Holinek. We-’

‘Do you have your passports?’

I shake my head. ‘Martin. . My husband has them. He took both of them because. . Well, he just took them.’

Knud nods, Lene writes.

‘Some kind of identification perhaps?’

I produce my driving licence. Lene notes down various details, then hands it back.

‘What happened on the ferry?’ says Knud.

‘I don’t know. We went our different ways for a while. He went to the restaurant for a meal, but I wasn’t hungry and so I stayed with Castor. . Our dog. He said he might smoke a cigarette as well. But. . But he never came back.’

At this point I start sobbing violently. Lene produces a box of paper tissues. I take one and blow my nose painstakingly.

‘I’m sorry. I sat waiting with Castor until they announced that it was time to return to the car deck, and when Martin didn’t appear. . well, I suppose I thought he would go straight to the car.’

Knud clears his throat. ‘Perhaps we must take things a little easy now. You seem very upset, fru Holinek.’

‘Yes. .’

I don’t know what to say. All three of us sit there in silence for a few seconds.

‘What do you think might have happened?’

I shake my head. I feel panic building up inside me — no wonder.

‘What state was he in?’ asks Lene. ‘It’s important we discover how things are and we keep our calm. What do you think, fru Holinek?’

I don’t answer, just stare down at the table.

‘Was your husband depressed?’ asks Knud. ‘Had you quarrelled?’

I shake my head, then nod. Without looking at either of them. I clasp my hands together.

‘Yes, he was depressed. But we hadn’t quarrelled.’

They exchange looks.

‘Could it possibly be that. .’ says Knud slowly, scratching at a stain on the sleeve of his shirt with the nail of his index finger. ‘Could it possibly be that your husband has jumped overboard?’

I stare at both of them, one after the other. Feel that the whole of my body is shaking. Then I nod.

Knud stands up and leaves the room, clutching his mobile tightly. Lene stays with me and Castor.

‘Let us now take it calm,’ she says again.

We get a room at the Danhotel in Rødbyhavn. It’s past midnight when we go to bed. Police officer Lene is in the room next to ours, in case I might need her assistance. We have sat talking in a corner of the hotel dining room for over an hour. I have told her all about Martin’s depression, how he couldn’t work, how he had started drinking too much and started smoking again, having given up over fifteen years ago. That I was worried about him, and that. . well, that it is not impossible that he chose to jump overboard rather than going back to Sweden with the millstone of a major failure round his neck.

Lene has explained that they are searching for Martin with the aid of both boats and helicopters, but of course it is an almost impossible task in the dark. They will increase their efforts as soon as it gets lighter, but I must probably prepare myself for the worst. You can’t survive for very long in the water at this time of year.

I broke down and cried several times, and I didn’t need to make much of an effort to do so. Gudrun Ewerts would have been proud of me. Lene asked whom I would like to be informed — our children, for instance — but I said I didn’t want to tell anybody until a bit more time has passed. Tomorrow, perhaps.

When we said goodnight outside my room door, she gave me a hug.

‘Just knock if you want something,’ she said. ‘I can sleep in your room if you want, you know that.’

‘I have my dog,’ I say. ‘I’ll be all right. But thank you.’