Death Comes to Strandvig Read online

  Death comes to Strandvig

  Diane Hansen-Ingram

  Text copyright © 2016 Diane Hansen-Ingram

  All Rights Reserved

  To Helene and Vibeke, my fellow winter Bathing Belles.

  Fordi vi har kun det sjov vi selv laver!

  To Marla Cilley, who helped me get rid of the clutter in my house, and – more importantly – the clutter between my ears.

  To my Mum, who loves a good cozy. And to my dearly-departed-Dad, who would have loved the food at Strandhøj Kro.

  With thanks to Kathryn Casey for being a listening ear and having a good eye.

  With love to Kim, Robert and Emilie.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  CHAPTER 50

  CHAPTER 51

  CHAPTER 52

  CHAPTER 53

  CHAPTER 54

  CHAPTER 55

  CHAPTER 56

  CHAPTER 57

  THANK YOU, READER!

  RESIDENTS OF STRANDVIG

  DANISH – ENGLISH GLOSSARY

  WINTERBATHING GUIDELINES

  CHAPTER 1

  8 January

  I must be mad! Lea Jensen forced herself not to shiver as she removed her heavy, blue bathrobe, placed it in the wire basket and looked down at the wooden steps, sparkling with thick frost. Focus! She put one hand on each side of the railing and descended slowly, feeling each step with her bare foot to check for ice. At the last step she sank slowly into the water, looked straight out to the horizon and kicked off. She counted: one stroke, two strokes, three strokes… At four, the sea won, the icy water biting into her neck like tiny steel blades. She turned full circle and thrashed back to the steps as fast as her basic breaststroke would carry her. Grabbed on to the thick, wooden rope that was circling in the water like a snake, and pulled herself up on to the first step. She was panting, the air from her mouth blowing out in little clouds of steam.

  “Godmorgen, Lea Mus!” She looked up to see Bent Bang, her friend and senior Viking, grinning down at her. His smile only slightly larger than the somewhat ragged blue towel loosely hanging round his waist.

  “And a very good – and very frosty – morning to you, too, Bent!” Lea reached the top of the steps and allowed Bent to help her into her robe. He held it out majestically, as high as he could, but Lea still had to bend backwards slightly to reach down to his height. “Ah, luxury – my very own butler!” She stood up to her full height and shook her shoulders.

  “Anything for you, Princess!” said Bent, saluting. Lea slipped into her fur-lined crocs, and looked down at her feet with a sigh.

  “Princess, Bent? In these ugly crocs I’m more like one of the ugly sisters! Honestly, when did I turn into such an old maid?”

  “You’re not an old maid, Lea Mus. You just need to get out more and enjoy yourself. Let it all hang out!”

  She rolled her eyes. “‘Let it all hang out?’ Just like you, you mean?” Lea pulled the robe tightly around her and felt the inner warmth that always followed an icy dip begin to surge around her body, starting with her toes.

  Behind them came the sound of chattering voices. Elvira and Gerda, two ladies in their late 70s, slowly made their way across the glistening wooden boards, hanging on to each other, in a kind of soft-shoe shuffle. Like two elderly Bambis on ice. On finally reaching the railing, they carefully started to disrobe.

  Bent made a flourish with his hand, as if he was removing a top hat. “Good morning, young ladies! I do hope you’ll both be joining me in the sauna afterwards?”

  “Of course!” tittered Elvira. Then, trying her best to look innocent, added, “Though it looks like standing room only in there this morning.”

  “Don’t you worry, my dear”, winked Bent, “there’s plenty of space on my lap!”

  “Oh my word! Is that a threat or a promise, Bent Bang?” quipped Elvira.

  “A promise, my dear!” Bent pulled his hand across his neck, as if he was slitting his throat. “Ama’r halshug!”

  Elvira did her best to look coy and held up her little hand towel in front of her nose. Gerda did her best to look suitably shocked. Then both of them giggled and they continued down the bathing bridge steps, chattering like schoolgirls.

  Lea tried her best to shoot him a reproving look, “Bent, you’re incorrigible! And,” she added, nodding down at Bent’s waist, “talking of ‘letting it all hang out’… Are you quite sure that towel meets our club guidelines? I’m pretty sure that Frandsen Brothers have some nice fluffy towels on sale right now.”

  Bent looked at his towel, confused. Then looked at his towel again. “What on earth do you mean, Lea Mus?”

  Lea pointed over towards the club’s noticeboard, hanging in the little alcove between the ladies and gents changing huts. A piece of shiny, laminated A4-paper stuck out like a beacon amidst the hotchpotch of faded photos, and yellowed documents.

  “Right there, Bent. Congratulations, you’ve just made the front page!”

  VIKINGS

  Male bathers are respectfully reminded that

  their vital parts must be covered at all times

  with an adequately sized towel.

  H. BRANDT, CHAIRPERSON

  Bent craned his neck and peered up at the paper, then down at his waist, “Hov, hov! What’s wrong with the size of my towel? Though, I can assure you that there’s nothing wrong with my vital parts, Lea Mus. All present and correct and in working order!” He turned around and looked back in the direction of the bathing steps. “Just you ask Gerda. Or Elvira!”

  Lea laughed, “Oh, Bent, you’re the giddy limit! But, hey, you’d better look sharp, ‘cos here comes Holy Helle right now!”

  Helle Brandt, or “Holy” when she wasn’t within earshot, Chairperson of the Viking Swimmers Club, was striding towards them, resplendent in her winter uniform of floor-length real fur coat and matching Davy Crockett furry headband. “Lord, Bless us all! I’m off. See you tonight, Lea Mus!” whispered Bent, and darted towards the gents changing hut. The constant damp made the door stick so he pulled hard, using both hands. Luckily for him, it gave way on the first attempt this morning.

  Helle Brandt was a wo
man with a mission. For the past three years she had devoted her time and (seemingly boundless) energy to her two ‘callings’: as the iron-fisted Chairperson of The Vikings and as the booming, officious Cantor of Strandvig Church. An arrangement fully supported by her loyal husband, Hans Jørgen. He was overjoyed when Helle landed the cushy, public servant post of Cantor. Not only did it bring in a very tidy sum of Danish kroner every month, but all those extracurricular weddings and funerals kept her permanently on her feet. And out of his hair. Which meant more time on the golf course for him. Halleluja!

  Helle waved majestically at Elvira and Gerda, who were up out of the water and leisurely making their way back across the glistening boards, and headed straight for Lea. “Good morning, Lea! Morning ablutions well underway? No better way to start the day is there?” “Yes—” Lea started to speak, but Helle was in full flow and obviously working her way through the day’s agenda. Check, check, check. And double check.

  “Was that Mr Bang I saw just now?” “Yes, he—”

  “I declare he disappears like a rabbit! Oh dear, oh dear, I really wanted a word with him.”

  “Well, if you like I can—”

  Helle started to pull off her gloves. “He promised to fix the door of the storage hut last week and it’s still jamming. Did you hear that Mrs Møller got stuck in there yesterday morning – most unfortunate!”

  Lea rubbed her hands together and tried to cut the conversation short. “Ellen Møller? That’s a shame. Well, I had better get moving—”

  Helle wasn’t listening. “Luckily one of the other Vikings heard her knocking and graciously came to her rescue. But, of course, we Vikings are always ready to help those less fortunate…”

  Lea, starting to shiver, had had enough of being cut off. “Helle, I’m heading for the sauna. If I see Bent, I’ll make sure to give him your message.”

  Helle cocked her head to one side. “Will you? Oh, many thanks, Lea. A sense of community is so important, don’t you think? And do sign up if you can lend a hand with the Moonlight Bathe next week.”

  Helle said this lightly, as if it was a request. But after years of experience, Lea knew better. It was a direct order. A Holy Decree. Helle fixed Lea in her gaze. “Just a tray of cupcakes. No need to go to any bother.”

  Lea stood in silence, determined not to engage Helle in any way. She would not bake cupcakes. She would not bake cupcakes. No, she would not. This time she would stand her ground. She was busy at the office right now and she would not allow herself to be walked over by Helle. Or anyone else for that matter. She could make her own decisions. She was a big girl, wasn’t she? It had to stop. This year things were going to be different. It would be her New Year’s resolution. She would not—

  Holy Helle thundered on. “You will? Oh, great, thank you, Lea. I knew we could rely on you and we do need all hands on deck!” She pointed down at the wooden boards. “Hands. Deck! Ha ha ha!”

  Lea, dazed and stunned, tried to blurt out a protest, but all that came out was, “Ha?”

  Helle pulled back her thick fur sleeve and checked her watch. “Well, I must be on my way, Lea – you mustn’t keep me here chitchatting with you all morning, however pleasant that may be. Yes, I wish I had time to bake. But some of us are busy, busy, busy, you know. We can’t keep the mothers and tots waiting for Baby Psalm Song Time now, can we?” she bellowed, and marched off.

  No, we can’t thought Lea, sending daggers into Helle’s rather buxom disappearing back, along with a few choice (and less than holy) expletives. Lea saved a few expletives for herself, having once again failed to stand her ground. Gah! From now on, I will stand firm! This year I am…immovable! Then promptly decided she had better get moving into the sauna in order to defrost her fingers and toes.

  CHAPTER 2

  Strandhøj seaside hotel, with its white-washed walls and shiny black wooden pillars, was the very last building on the coastal road out of the village. Built back in 1896, it had undergone extensive upgrades over the years. Nothing drastic in the structural department – the layout and the rooms were very much the same as they were over a hundred years ago. But the interior walls had been stripped and repainted several times. And always (always) according to the original colour charts. When the wallpaper had to be replaced, an architect from Copenhagen was brought in to track down a suitable substitute, with the remit of keeping as close to the original pattern and style as possible. After much humming and hawing by the architect, and many weeks of searching, rolls of substitute paper were found. Fit for a Queen and cost a King’s ransom.

  And then there were the electrics. Strandhøj had been rewired from top to bottom to conform to the ever-increasing safety standards and (more importantly) the ever-increasing desire of guests to be online twenty-four hours a day. High speed internet, please, and make it snappy. The indoor climate was just as important, so draughty single pane windows had been replaced by low energy double glazing. And, more for pleasure, all the bathrooms had been equipped with underfloor heating. But despite the modern improvements, the grand hotel had managed to retain all of its old world charm. The wooden staircase and ‘herring bone’ pattern wooden floors were in a league of their own. Regularly and lovingly maintained by a local family firm of joiners – the same firm who had installed them in 1896 – they were a thing of beauty. The first thing one noticed on opening the main glass doors, entering the small reception.

  So Strandhøj remained proudly (though never snobbishly) true to its original style. Over a hundred years and a couple of decades since it’s opening, there was a decidedly chic, genteel feel about the place.

  There was something decidedly less chic and genteel about Johnny Højer as he pushed the overflowing trolley full of white satin-weave bedding and white damask tablecloths to the car park. Johnny’s hair was, at the best of times, what can only be described as ‘wild’. Despite his best efforts to tame it. On this cold and frosty morning, it was downright flat on one side and bolt upright on the other. And he looked like he’d much rather be lying down inside the trolley rather than pushing it from the outside.

  The white laundry van came Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. It was already parked at the back door of the hotel with its doors wide open, the faintest sound of pop music coming from the front. Brian Møller, the driver, hummed along with Dodo and the Dodos. He loved this radio station: all his favourites, all day long. His musical taste hadn’t evolved since his teenage years, and he was quite content with that. Brian was in his standard winter uniform of grey shell jacket and grey thermal trousers. If you replaced his woollen hat with a helmet, he wouldn’t have looked out of place on the slopes of the French Alps.

  Johnny let out a yawn, patted his hair down and rubbed his hands together. Damn, it was cold! “Hey there, Brian! Good morning!”

  Brian, busy unloading black felt doormats and the day’s batch of fresh linens from the van, turn around and stopped. “Oh, hi there, Johnny! Where’s Stig this morning? Sick?”

  “Nah, we swapped shifts. One of the radiators at Æblegården isn’t working, so Stig’s taking a look. You know him, Mr Goody Two Shoes. Want one?” Johnny, shivering, held out a packet of Prince, took one himself and lit up for both of them.

  Brian took a puff. “Thanks, Johnny. Æblegården? So he’s off helping Karin then?”

  Johnny sat down on the wall, using one of the dirty tablecloths to protect his backside from the cold stone. “Yeah. Not a bad looking woman, Karin. Got her own flat too – all very nice and stable. A man could do worse.”

  Brian laughed, “Sounds like you might be interested in the little lady yourself, Johnny?”

  “Might be.” He inhaled deeply and made a few smoke rings. “Like to keep my options open though. You know me, Brian, I’m a mover and a shaker. Talking of which,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall and throwing it into the bush behind, “I’ve got some gear I need shifted. You interested in driving?”

  Brian was immediately on the alert and took an unconsc
ious half-step back. “What kind of stuff? Nothing dodgy, is it?” Brian, bless his little heart, was an easy-going guy and would be the first in line to help a friend in need. He spent all his free time coaching Strandvig’s Under 7s football team. And a very good coach he was too. Firm but fair. Just like his mother, Ellen, the town butcher. But using the company van after hours was very definitely outside his comfort zone. And Johnny wasn’t a friend. Or someone that Mrs Brian at home would approve of…

  Johnny looked towards the hotel and lit up another Prince. “Oh, don’t worry, Brian. Nothing dodgy. We just don’t have a big enough van that’s all.”

  Brian gently shut the back doors of the van, making as little noise as possible. “We? You mean you and Stig?” Stig was a different kettle of fish, he’d done Brian plenty of favours in the past. And Mrs Brian approved of Stig, there was no doubt about that.

  Johnny screwed up his eyes and took a long drag. “If you’re not interested, Brian, it’s okay. I’m sure we can find another driver. But, hey, have a think and let me know as soon as possible, will you?” He smiled and rubbed his fingers together. “Because there might be a good bit of money in it for all of us.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gustav Damborg slammed the door behind him and started running down the three flights of stairs. He was holding on to his very scuffed, dirty green Fjällräven rucksack with one hand and trying to pull on his North Face parka with the other. When he got down to the bottom of the stairwell, he stopped and half turned. First he patted his pocket, then started to fish in his inside right pocket. The bike key wasn’t there. Shit!

  He started to reclimb the stairs, two at a time, but changed his mind at the first landing and knelt down, panting slightly. He opened the bag and pulled out his laptop. Then turned the bag upside down and shook out the rest of the contents onto the linoleum... Come on, come on! It’s here somewhere! Gustav was going to be late for gymnasium. Again.