“Just come on, will you? And get hold of Rose. NOW!”
“The basement’s closed off,” homicide deputy Lars Bjørn butted in. “Asbestos sifting down from the pipe lagging. Health and Safety have been around and there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Assad nodded. “I’m afraid this is true, Carl. We had to bring all our stuff up here. There is not much room, but we did find a nice chair for you,” he added, as though it could ever be a comfort. “We are only us two at the moment. Rose did not fancy it, so she is off on a long weekend. She’ll be back later on today, though.”
They might just as well have kicked him in the gonads.
2
She had sat staring into the candles until they burned out and darkness wrapped itself around her. It wasn’t the first time he’d left her on her own, but he’d never done it on their anniversary before.
She inhaled deeply and got to her feet. Lately, she’d given up standing by the window to wait for him, had stopped writing his name with her finger on the pane as it steamed up from her breath.
It wasn’t as if there had been no warning signs the time they first met. Her best friend had had her doubts, and her mother had told her straight out. He was too old for her. There was something shifty about him. A man you couldn’t trust. A man you couldn’t fathom.
So now she hadn’t seen her friend or her mother for a very long time. And for that reason her desperation increased while her need for human contact was greater than ever. Who could she talk to? There was no one there.
She gazed into the empty, orderly rooms and pressed her lips together as the tears welled up in her eyes.
Then she heard the child stir and pulled herself together. Wiped the tip of her nose with her index finger and took two deep breaths.
If her husband was being unfaithful, then he would do well not to count on her.
There had to be more to life than this.
He came into the bedroom so silently only his shadow on the wall gave him away. Broad shoulders, arms wide open. He lay down and drew her in to him without a word. Warm and naked.
She had expected sweetness, but also well-considered apologies. Maybe she’d been afraid of the slight scent of some strange woman and guilt-ridden hesitation in all the wrong places, but instead he grabbed hold of her, turned her roughly onto her back, and began greedily to tear off her nightclothes. The moonlight was in his face. It turned her on. Now the waiting, the frustration, the worry, and the doubt were all gone.
It was six months since he’d last been like this.
Thank God, at last.
“I have to go away for a while, sweetheart,” he said without warning over the breakfast table, stroking the child on the cheek. Distracted, as though his words didn’t mean anything.
She frowned and pursed her lips to keep the inevitable question inside for a moment. Then she put her fork down on the plate and sat with her gaze fixed on the scrambled eggs and bacon. The night had been long. It was still with her, an ache around her pelvis, but also the kisses and cuddles when they had lain there spent, gazing warmly into each other’s eyes. Until now, it had allowed her to forget all thought of time and place. Until now. For at this moment, the pale March sun forced its way into the room like an unwelcome guest to illuminate the facts. Her husband was going away. Again.
“Why can’t you tell me what you do? I’m your wife. I won’t tell anyone,” she said.
He sat with his cutlery half-raised. His eyes grew dark then.
“Seriously,” she went on. “How long am I supposed to wait this time for you to be like you were last night again? Are we back to where we were before? Me not knowing what you’re up to, and you hardly being present, even when you’re here?”
He looked at her with piercing eyes. “Haven’t you known from the start that I can’t talk about my work?”
“Yes, but…”
“Well, then. Let’s leave it at that.”
His knife and fork clattered against the plate, and he turned toward their son with something supposed to resemble a smile.
Her breathing was steady and calm, but despair surged inside her. It was true enough. Long before their wedding, he had explained to her that he was unable to speak about what he did. He might have hinted it was something to do with intelligence, she couldn’t really remember anymore. But as far as she knew, people in the intelligence services still lived reasonably normal lives alongside their jobs. Their own life together was in no way normal. Unless intelligence work also involved being unfaithful, because as far as she could see, that was the only possible explanation for his behavior.
She gathered the plates and thought about giving him an ultimatum there and then. Risking the anger she feared but had yet to experience to its full extent.
“When will I see you again?” she asked.
He looked at her and smiled. “I’ll be home next Wednesday, I imagine. This type of job usually takes a week, ten days at most.”
“You’ll be home just in time for your bowling tournament then,” she said sarcastically.
He stood up and put his arms around her, drawing her in toward the bulk of his body, clasping his hands under her chest. The feeling of his head on her shoulder had always sent a tingle down her spine. But now she pulled away.
“True,” he said. “I should be back in good time for that. So before you know it, it’ll be last night all over again. OK?”
After he had gone and the sound of the car engine had died away, she stood for a long time with her arms folded and her gaze out of focus. It was one thing to be lonely in life. But it was quite another not to know what you were paying that price for. The chances of ever catching a man like hers cheating on her were minimal, she knew that, even though she had never tried. His territory was a vast expanse, and he was a careful man; everything in their life indicated that. Pensions, insurance, double-checking of windows and doors, suitcases and luggage, desk always tidy, no hastily jotted notes or receipts left behind in pockets or drawers. He was a man who left no trace. Not even the scent of him remained more than a few minutes after he had left the room. How would she ever uncover an affair unless she put a private investigator on him? And where was she supposed to get the means to do that?
She thrust out her lower lip and expelled warm breath slowly into her face. Like she always did prior to an important decision. On the riding ground before clearing the highest obstacle. Before choosing her confirmation dress. Even before saying her vows in the church. And before going outside to see if life might be any different there in that gentle light.
3
David Bell, a convivial hulk of a police sergeant, liked to take things easy, to sit and stare out at the waves as they smashed against the rocks. All the way up at John O’Groats, Scotland’s very extremity, where the sun shone only half as long but twice as stunningly. This was David’s birthplace, and it was where he intended to die when his time was up.
David Bell was made for the rugged sea. Why should he idle away his time sixteen miles farther south in the office of Bankhead Road Police Station in Wick, when this slumbering harbor meant so much to him? It was a fact he made no bones about.
It was also the reason why his boss always dispatched him to sort things out whenever there was trouble brewing in the communities up north. David would trundle up in his patrol car and threaten the local hotheads that he’d call in an officer from Inverness. It was generally enough to settle things down again. In these parts, no one wanted strangers from the city nosing about in their back gardens any more than they wanted horse piss in their Skull Splitter ale. It was more than enough having folk come through for the Orkney ferry.