Lene Kaaberbol - Invisible Murder

She had just turned twenty-two when they got married; he had been forty-six. They had met each other at the Town Hall, where she worked as the mayor’s secretary, a job she dispatched with a cool efficiency that made her seem mature and professional compared to most of the girls in the typing pool. Yes, that’s what they used to call them, “the girls.” Without any of the artificial political correctness one had to employ these days. This was back in the ’70s when fringe purses and hot pants were starting to sneak into even the stuffiest of local government offices, but Helle stuck to classic pencil skirts, pearl necklaces, and cardigans with a Chanel-like elegance that always made him think of Grace Kelly. But it wasn’t until he discovered that her father picked her up every evening because she didn’t dare walk home alone … it wasn’t until then that he realized the depth of the vulnerability she kept hidden beneath her professional façade. It touched him deeply, and it was for this reason that he began to cautiously suggest that he would be glad to drive her home any day her father found it inconvenient.

Occasionally, he had wondered, of course. A twenty-four-year age difference was quite a gap, objectively speaking, even in those days, but it didn’t feel that way.

“My father is seventeen years older than my mother,” she had said. “And they had me late. I’m used to older people.” There had been no mocking glint in her eye, he recalled. As time went by, he discovered that she meant exactly what she said—she was more comfortable with his generation than with her own. Protest movements, bra burning, and mind-altering substances were absolutely not her thing. Young people scared her.

A man in his forties thinks only fleetingly about what will happen to his life partner when he is no longer around. His foresight then had been sorely lacking. Now he could hardly think of anything else. The savings, the house, her widow’s pension would surely suffice if she refrained from stupid spending, but that was exactly what he could not count on. Costa del Castle-in-Spain. How could she do something like that without even talking to him about it? Over half a million kroner gone just like that. She might as well have flushed it down the toilet.

He stopped and clutched his chest. Yet another runner trotted past him, this time not one of the fit and well-trained casual lot, but a panting middle-aged jogger whose stomach was bouncing out of step with the rest of him in its own syncopated rhythm. The man’s face was lobster red, and in his tortured expression, Skou-Larsen could see the fear of death shining, so he thought, with preternatural brightness.

When I turned fifty, no one expected me to buy a pair of trainers and start pounding around on park paths, Skou-Larsen thought, remembering the Georg Jensen designed cigar cutter his staff had given him to mark the occasion.

He decided his walk had been long enough. It was cold, and he wanted to go home.

He walked down Lundedalsvej instead of the parallel Ellemosevej because he couldn’t help himself. It was unwise, particularly now when he wasn’t feeling well. Also, he would be forced to lie to Helle if she asked, and she would ask, he was convinced of that.

The short access road still hadn’t been paved. They had put down a bit of preliminary gravel, deeply rutted now from the passage of trucks and heavy machinery. The fence around the construction site formed a slipshod zigzag shape, tilting on gray concrete foundation blocks, and a man with a yellow hardhat and neon yellow vest was just closing the gate behind the last truck of the day. Skou-Larsen raised a polite hand in the kind of greeting you give someone when you don’t actually want to shake their hand.

“How are things going?” he asked.

The man was pulling a thick chain through the gate. He half-turned and looked suspiciously over his shoulder, but when he spotted Skou-Larsen, he visibly relaxed. He obviously didn’t consider older gentlemen in windbreakers and tweed caps to be threatening.

“How’s what going?” he asked, not particularly courteously, Skou-Larsen thought.

“The construction. Are you making progress?” I’ve inspected hundreds of building sites in my life, Skou-Larsen thought, taking a steely, authoritative stance.

The man furrowed his brow and may have been having trouble deciding what to make of Skou-Larsen. After all, there was an outside chance that this senior citizen was not just a meddlesome nursing home candidate, but actually had some kind of influence in the chain of command above him.

“Pretty good,” he finally responded. “Of course we’re a little behind. And although we have a guard dog now, we’ve had trouble with vandalism at the site a couple of times. Not everyone likes this.” He pointed his thumb at the big sign bearing a few lines of text in Arabic script and below that in somewhat smaller type, AL-KABIR ISLAMIC CULTURAL CENTER.

“Well, I suppose not,” Skou-Larsen said in a neutral voice. “But do you still think you will be able to finish the building this summer?”

“We don’t exactly have a choice,” the man said with a wry smile. “Some Imam is coming from London to bless the whole thing for its grand opening, and obviously we can’t just rearrange his whole schedule.”

“Ah, yes. Well then, good luck with the project.”

The man nodded and then snapped a heavy padlock into place on the chain.

“Have a good day,” he said and jumped into a red station wagon with yellow plates.

Why doesn’t anyone ever say goodbye anymore? Skou-Larsen thought.

He stood there for a bit peering through the fence. Nominally, it was a remodel, but apart from the foundation, there wasn’t much left of the old factory building. White walls with arched windows had supplanted weathered concrete, and the old corrugated fiber cement roof was being replaced with shiny, glazed green roofing tiles. Farther back, behind the entrance hall, two slender towers rose on either side of a domed roof, still hidden under thick, red tarpaulins. The sign may have said Cultural Center, but the architecture clearly indicated that this was to be a proper mosque.

It was beginning to drizzle. He had to get home before it picked up; a cold could be the death of him at this point. That’s how his old bridge partner Søndergaard had died. A runny nose, a couple of sneezes, and then suddenly it was the flu, pneumonia, a death certificate, and cremation. It hadn’t even been Legionnaire’s disease or anything else exotic, just a completely run-of-the-mill virus. And the man had been three years younger than him.

He gave the pseudo-minarets one last frustrated glance. If it had been twenty-five years earlier, the building permit for the project might have been his to give or withhold. But twenty-five years earlier, nothing like this would ever have been proposed.

If only the minarets were not so damnably tall. They were actually visible from the backyard of his home on Elmehøjvej.

He reached his own front door at quarter past five. Through the open kitchen door, he could hear the sound of sizzling margarine, and there was a pleasant smell of dinner in the making. He hung his windbreaker and cap up on the hook by the door, took off his shoes, and stuck his feet into the sheepskin-lined slippers Helle had given him for Christmas.

“What are we having?” he asked with a cheerfulness he didn’t feel.

“Rissoles.” Helle had a sharp, worried wrinkle on her forehead, like an inverted figure of 1, and he sensed the tension in her. Maybe she was afraid she would be late for choir practice, even small everyday appointments often caused her a considerable amount of anxiety. She stuck the spatula under a rissole and flipped it rapidly. “Did you walk past it?”