The fire transformed the paper into thin flakes of ash that took up more and more room in the stove. They fluttered at the slightest gust of wind and some whirled into the living room where they settled on the floor, on me or on the furniture around me. My clothes were soon sprinkled with ash and I stood up to dust myself down.
At that moment I heard someone try to open the front door.
I froze in mid-movement, just as I was brushing ash off my sleeve, and held my breath.
There was a knock on the door.
‘FF?’
It was Bent.
‘Are you OK, neighbour?’
Even though he couldn’t see into the living room from that side of the house, I still tiptoed to a corner that couldn’t be seen from any of the windows.
‘I saw your car,’ Bent called out on the other side of the door. ‘How was Copenhagen?’
I heard his steps move away from the front door and around the house. He was talking to himself. The decking on the terrace creaked. Soon I heard him tap on the window.
‘Frank? Is everything all right?’
He couldn’t see me in the corner, but I could see his shadow fall through the French windows. He was leaning towards the glass, cupping his hands either side of his head to peer inside.
‘Come on, Frank,’ he said, sounding mildly annoyed. ‘I can see that you’ve lit a fire.’
I clenched my teeth. Why couldn’t he just go away?
Bent knocked harder on the window.
‘Bloody hell, Frank.’
His shadow moved away.
‘Frank!’ Bent shouted. ‘Are you upstairs?’
I could hear that he had been drinking. The slurring in his speech would indicate five or six beers, which would be about right, given that it was one o’clock in the afternoon.
‘Fraaaank!’
I had a strong urge to open the door and tell him to piss off, but he persisted.
‘Frank, for Christ’s sake.’
I heard him shuffle across the terrace.
‘I know you’re in there!’ he called out from the garden. ‘Come on, Frank … I’m not going to go away, you know.’ He laughed briefly.
Ten or fifteen seconds passed when I could only hear mumbling. Then his tone changed.
‘Bloody writer,’ he sneered. ‘Bloody writer!’ he said again, now sounding like a petulant child. ‘You’ve always been so stuck up. You think you’re too good for the rest of us, eh. But let me tell you something.’
He fell silent for a few seconds as if he was plucking up the courage or waiting for a reaction.
‘You’re no better than the rest of us. Not one bit. Or you wouldn’t be rotting away up here like us, would you? No! But you think you’re so bloody clever and that we’re all so bloody lucky that you choose to hang out with us.’
Shouting appeared to sober him up. At any rate, he had stopped slurring.
‘But you’re no better than the rest of us,’ he scoffed again. ‘You’re worse. Good neighbours give and take. But not you. You’ve only ever taken and always when it suited you. You let us come over when you felt like it, the rest of the time you would just ignore us.’
Shouting had made him breathless and he paused.
‘Do you know something, Frank?’ He waited a couple of seconds for a reply. ‘Screw you! You’re on your own from now on, you stuck-up wanker!’
I heard him march through the garden back to his own house. A few minutes later, I moved out of the corner and went back to the stove. Bent’s words hadn’t upset me. I was almost relieved that he had ended our neighbourly relationship. One less thing to worry about.
The fire was dying down from lack of nourishment and I chucked in the rest of the letters in one big pile. The flames flared up with gratitude. I made sure they were burning properly before I ran back upstairs. In my bedroom I packed a suitcase of clothes that I left downstairs by the front door. Then I returned to my study and started unplugging computer cables. I carried the monitor downstairs, then the computer itself and the keyboard. Finally I brought down the printer as well as bag of essential cables and a ream of paper.
The letters in the fireplace had burned away. Only a few yellow envelope corners remained in the ashes. A gust of wind found its way down the chimney and wafted black flakes of burned paper out on the floor.
I opened the door a little and peered outside. Bent was nowhere to be seen. I grabbed the suitcase and sneaked out to the car. Carefully, I opened the boot and slid my suitcase over the parcel shelf and down on the back seat. Then I went back for the computer and the rest of my equipment.
I didn’t waste time locking up the cottage, but I stood for a moment staring at the place that had been my home for many years.
Then I got into the car and drove off.
40
I FOLLOWED THE coast past Vejby, Tisvildeleje and on towards the west. In Hundested I caught the ferry across the fjord to Rørvig. The crossing only took twenty minutes, but I felt I was leaving behind an entire continent.
I found a holiday homes letting agency near Rørvig Harbour. The agent was delighted to have a customer this late in the season, but surprised that I needed a place immediately and that I paid cash, both the deposit and eight weeks’ rental. I chose a house with a sea view and relatively isolated from its nearest neighbours. Even outside the tourist season it was expensive, but the location was crucial.
I gave my name as Karsten Venstrøm, the name of the murdering psychologist from In the Red Zone. The agent wanted to chat, but I ignored him and completed the paperwork as quickly as I could. Twenty minutes later I got into my car with the keys to the house in my pocket.
I shopped in a supermarket in Nykøbing and quickly filled a shopping trolley with enough groceries for a couple of weeks if I rationed my supplies carefully.
Then I drove to the house, which lay further out on Odden.
It was a large house, far bigger than I needed, with a Jacuzzi, a sauna and a huge conservatory with a wood burner. It slept twelve, but I chose the smallest bedroom, where I unpacked my clothes and made my bed. I closed the doors to the other rooms and switched on the heating in the rooms I intended to use. I put the computer and printer at the end of an enormous dining table that seated at least ten. I checked my computer would start and that I could print. Everything worked.
Apart from the conservatory, there was a dining room, a living room and a television room with a wooden floor, black leather furniture and a fireplace. The television was a large flat-screen model. I turned it on and checked the text TV news. There was nothing about Verner or Linda. I left the television on while I went back to the car. I was able to remove the registration plates with my hands and I threw them both into the boot. Then I drove the Corolla further into the grounds so it couldn’t be seen from the road.
Afterwards I walked around the area. Most of it was covered by heather or trees. The nearest house was over two hundred metres away and there were conifers in between to block the view across. The garden consisted of a lawn, decking and a shed containing garden furniture, a round barbecue, a lawnmower and other gardening tools.
Back in the house the heating from the electric radiators had kicked in, but I lit a fire in the television room all the same. I switched the television to the news channel and fetched a bottle of whisky I had bought in the supermarket. I reclined in the soft leather armchair, a glass of whisky in my hand and the bottle within reach, and spent the next couple of hours following the 24-hour news. The murders weren’t mentioned; they only covered trivialities such as the Danish government’s budget negotiations and silly contributions to the immigration debate.