Dreamless (12 page)

The police chief glanced up to bask for a moment in the admiring gaze of the doctor, then looked down at the corpse again. He let go of the hands and did as the doctor had just done. He pulled apart the edges of the wound to peer inside the abdomen. Just inside the flesh, something caught his attention: a tiny, soft, foreign object. He plucked it out, holding it between his thumb and index finger. Then he straightened up and looked at the chief physician.

The doctor was no longer impressed. He looked disgusted. It’s a strange thing about professional folk, thought Bayer. They couldn’t stand to see untrained individuals doing their job. The doctor could carry out the most unpleasant operations on a human body without causing himself the slightest distress, but if he saw somebody merely touching a corpse like this, he turned pale, as if witnessing the most abominable witchcraft. Nils Bayer ignored the look of reproach.

“What do you think this could be?” he said, holding up the thin, soft, bloodstained object just a couple of inches from Fredrici’s face.

“It looks like a tiny scrap of fabric,” said the doctor, visibly shaken.

“And how do you think something like this ended up inside a naked body?”

“It’s difficult to say. The most likely scenario would be if the victim had been wearing a shirt when he was killed, and the murder weapon tore off a piece of fabric as it entered his body.”

“Are you suggesting that the victim was clothed when he was killed?” asked Bayer.

“Isn’t that what you wish to suggest, chief inspector?”

“That is my conclusion, yes. The victim was killed while clothed. Afterward, his body was stripped and transported here. I wonder why.”

“Something tells me that you have already answered that question,” murmured the chief physician.

“Actually, I haven’t. It’s a mystery to me!”

Bayer gazed out over the dark fjord. He took a hip flask from his waistcoat pocket, took a long swig, and then offered the doctor a drink with an expression that said
bibamus, moriendum est
(“Let us drink, for death is certain”). Using both hands, Fredrici held the flask in a cruel grip, as if he pictured himself throttling Bayer. Then he emptied the flask in two big gulps.

“It seems as if my presence here has been unnecessary,” said the doctor.

“By no means, my dear Dr. Fredrici. On the contrary, it has been most instructive. What I’m perhaps hoping might be superfluous, at least until times improve, is your fee. You know how limited my funds are as the city’s chief of police. Three hundred
riksdaler
a year is hardly enough to pay my two officers and finance both an office and a decent home. And when you consider all the crimes that come with the ever-increasing numbers of tradesmen and fortune-seekers … I’m certain that you understand my position, and since I know you to be a noble man who gladly purchases medicines to be given free of charge to the city’s needy when disease threatens, I am hoping it will be possible for you, in this instance, to extend your services to the city for the benefit of your own honor.”

“There has never been anything wrong with your gift of speech,” said the doctor curtly.

Then he handed the flask back to Bayer and took his leave without making any mention of a fee. Bayer knew that this time he had gone too far. He knew that the doctor also had trouble making ends meet, that he rarely demanded payment for many of the services he rendered, especially when it came to the truly needy people in the city. And he was planning to sell his country estate and move permanently to a place in the oppressive city air. Bayer was well aware of where the boundaries of common decency lay, and he knew that he’d overstepped them. He also knew that the doctor would quickly forgive him, and that he’d never again hear mention of a fee. But that was not the reason why his stomach was churning so ominously. Above all, he was hungry and thirsty, perhaps mostly the latter. He grabbed his cane and headed back into town. By now the Hoppa might have begun to serve breakfast.

*   *   *

He preferred the Hoppa to any of the other taverns in Trondheim because it happened to have one thing that no other place had. Her name was Ingrid Smeddatter. Her father, a blacksmith, and her mother had both died long ago in a fire, along with all their offspring except for Ingrid, who had been visiting a neighbor when the fire broke out. But Ingrid’s cousin ran the Hoppa tavern, and he’d taken in the orphaned girl. She turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to his business. When she started serving beer, sales increased significantly. Ingrid attracted the menfolk, but she also knew how to spurn the most boorish of the lot. And she was skilled at telling stories, both true and untrue. Right now Bayer was interested in a story based on fact, and he was hoping that she was at work at this early hour.

The Hoppa had only five tables, but they were big, with room for many chairs around each of them. For that reason it was a favorite place for dice games, until the police chief started frequenting the pub. Right now no one was sitting at the tables. Feeling disappointed, Bayer sat down at the table in the back and surveyed the deserted premises. Then he took out a short pipe and a tobacco pouch from the waistcoat pocket not occupied by the flask. He filled his pipe and went over to the fireplace to light it from the embers. Then he went back to the table, slowly sucking on his pipe. In many ways he was not a patient man, but the Hoppa was one of the few places where he chose to hide any sign of irritation. Ingrid deserved as much.

After half an hour he heard someone moving about on the floor above. Then the hatch in the ceiling opened and a ladder was lowered to the floor, not far from where he was sitting. A few moments later, the hem of Ingrid’s skirt came into view as she descended.

He sat at the table, calmly blowing smoke rings into the room. Ingrid was moving more slowly than usual. She fumbled her way down the ladder, as if reluctant to emerge from the night’s dreams, longing to return to her bed. He knew that she detested change. Perhaps that was a feeling shared by everyone who had survived a fire, that the torment of waking up was as great for her as the distress of falling asleep. And that was why she would never marry him.

He watched as she went into the next room, and shortly he could hear the clatter of dishes. Then she carried a big basket of table linens out to the well behind the building. He refilled his pipe, and she didn’t return until he’d finished smoking it. When she came back with a basket filled with dishes, she finally cast a glance in his direction and jumped so hard that she almost dropped the plates and tankards on the floor.

“Sweet heaven, Nils, you nearly scared me out of my wits!” she exclaimed, rolling her eyes.

He cleared his throat. It was something he had to do often if he hadn’t spoken or had anything to drink for a while. His throat felt like it was plugged up with congealed gravy from a bad meal. A terrible cough rattled his chest.

“That cough doesn’t sound good,” she said, coming over to him. “You should get Fredrici to listen to your chest. He’ll know what to do. Maybe you ought to smoke your pipe more often and switch to a stronger tobacco.”

“That’s possible. Or maybe I just need someone to take care of me.”

“Don’t start that again,” she said, setting her basket on the table in front of him.

“One day you’ll finally to have to relent,” he teased her as he stuffed his extinguished pipe back in his pocket.

“Why are you here so early? Usually the whole neighborhood is still shaking with your snoring at this hour. I’ve heard that you even keep the prisoners in the jail awake at night. Is it really any wonder that I never let you spend the night here?”

“Your tongue is already wide-awake, I see,” he parried drily. Then he added, “I’ve come to hear a story. And I’m hoping that you might tell it to me.”

“I know plenty of stories,” she said. “Are you thinking of one in particular?”

“Yes, this is a true story. It’s about a troubadour with long red hair. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’d been staying at one of the taverns around here. He can’t have been in the city long, because otherwise I would have recognized him.”

“I think I know the man you’re talking about. He’s been here a few times in the past months. Carrying a big old-fashioned lute. We never heard him play it. He was more interested in the dice games, and as the police chief knows, there’s not much of that here lately.”

“This man … does he have a name?”

“Yes, but I doubt that it’s the one his mother gave him.”

“What did he call himself?”

“Jon Blund.”

“Jon Blund? That’s a peculiar name to choose.”

“Yes, a peculiar name indeed. But why are you so interested in him? He was just a vagrant.”

“Because this Jon Blund has turned up down on the shore.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s dead. Do you have any idea where he came from, before he ended up in our city?”

“He claimed to have come from here originally. Said he grew up here as a boy and attended grammar school in town. But his accent and vocabulary seemed to indicate that he’d lived for a long time over to the east.…”

“And he never mentioned why he’d come back here?”

“No, but I had the impression that he didn’t give much thought to why he wandered. He seemed to be searching for happiness, in one way or another.”

“I understand. When did you last see him here?”

“It must have been more than a week ago.”

“And do you have any idea where he was staying?”

“I think he’d taken lodgings at the inn over in Brattøra, where the sailors often stay, and where ship’s mate Per Jonsen has started serving beer.”

Nils Bayer got to his feet, moving too fast for his stomach and noticing the twinge along his spine. Then he bowed in farewell.

“You’re leaving without even trying to woo me? This troubadour must have made quite an impression on you, my dear Nils,” she said with a laugh.

The sight of her dimples was imprinted in his brain.

“My lovely maiden,” he said, bowing again as he struck the floor with his policeman’s cane. “I can promise you that the wooing will be as copious as your refusals the next time we meet.”

She laughed—a sound that tore at his heartstrings. Then he left before the laughter faded.

He’d forgotten to refill his flask. He’d also forgotten to ask for a drink while he was sitting there. Now he had to walk all the way out to Brattøra with this growing nausea. He hoped the beer served by this ship’s mate was as good as the rumors claimed.

*   *   *

“A red-haired troubadour named Jon Blund? Yes. He’s staying here. But I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning,” said Per Jonsen, the sailor who had come ashore and opened a pub, although he still clung to his former life, both in style of clothing and personal hygiene. It was said that he never noticed if he wet himself when he was busy behind the bar. Also, he never used perfume. He stank accordingly.

“The reason you haven’t seen him is that he has kicked the bucket.” Bayer glared at the old sea dog. On his way over he’d worked up a sweat and was now out of breath. He’d trod in a big horse apple and soiled one of his newly polished boots. He was not happy.

“How about a glass of beer? I had some full barrels delivered this morning,” said the ship’s mate.

The offer instantly put Bayer in a friendlier mood. He gave a slight bow to indicate his acceptance. A glass overflowing with foam was set in front of him, and he downed it in one long gulp, feeling the warmth spread through the depths of his stomach.

“How about a little smoked sausage? On the house, of course.”

Bayer picked up the sausage, chewing as the former ship’s mate refilled his glass.

“So what you’re saying is that my lodger has departed this life? How terrible! Where did you find him?” asked Jonsen.

“On the beach, out past Ilsvika.”

“What was he doing out there?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. What do you know about him?”

“Not much. He arrived from Stockholm a few months ago with only an old lute, a few
daler
he’d apparently won gambling somewhere, and the clothes on his back. His money pouch was close to empty, especially since his gaming luck had been so bad the past few days. For a while he apparently earned a few coins by singing for the gentry out at Ringve.”

Bayer nodded.

“Can I see his room?”

“Well, he’s dead, isn’t he? I hardly think he’d mind,” said Jonsen with salt spray in his voice.

Jonsen led the way upstairs and unlocked the door. It was a small, drafty room that bore witness to a simple and restless life. It contained only a bed and a chair on which the lodger could place his clothes. At first glance Nils Bayer noticed two things: The troubadour’s clothing was gone, but his lute leaned against the wall. Then he caught sight of a book lying on the pillow. It was a book in folio format, with soft covers. A notebook. He went over to pick up the book and turn the pages. It contained mostly fragments of texts, little rhymes and clever phrases. In some places musical notes accompanied the texts.

Bayer was not a musical man, and he liked music only in the company of strong drink. He couldn’t say much about the musical notation on these pages. But he could tell that some of the completed texts had a certain distinction and finesse, and that the dead man must have had a talent for the art of words, and at least some amount of education.

One ballad in particular drew his attention. An introduction had been written to the song, explaining that this was not just any ordinary lullaby. It promised that anyone who heard it would fall asleep. In an aside, the author had added that this song would bring him the fame that he deserved, if only he could find the money to have it printed. Bayer read the words to the whole lullaby and had to admit that it was both beautifully poetic and gently humorous.

But the notebook revealed nothing that brought him any closer to why the man had died, this mystery that had begun to fill him with a thirst that was almost as strong as his thirst for beer. He tucked the notebook under his arm, thanked the innkeeper, and left the room. Down by the wharf he found a coach for hire that could take him to the office. He decided he’d walked enough for one day.