Lene Kaaberbol - Invisible Murder

The doctors said she was going to have to be patient. It was “unlikely” she had received a life-threatening dose, but “the course of the sickness could be extremely unpredictable.” She might feel better now or be sick for several days. After that she would recover quite quickly, they thought, but her fertility would be “problematic” and her immune system would be seriously compromised for a long time to come.

She believed them, especially on that last point.

She was so tired she could hardly feel her body anymore, and she desperately needed sleep, but the vomiting forced her to wake up several times an hour, and the traffic of people in and out of her room kept increasing. Unknown faces ebbing and flowing past the foot of her bed. Poking her, taking her blood pressure, pulling up her all-too-short hospital gown and letting their fingers run down over her ribs. Spreading her legs to look for any sign of a rash around her groin, on her buttocks, and on her back, as if she were a piece of meat on an autopsy table. As if she were dead.

And in the middle of all this, she missed Morten so much she couldn’t think straight. She imagined how he would enter the room and chase away all those toxic-yellow gowns. She would ask him to lie down on the bed next to her so she could bury her nose in his T-shirt and inhale the safe scent of North Sea winds and water and salt and Morten, instead of the smell of disinfectant soap and vomit. Maybe then her stomach would finally settle down a little.

The hospital had provided her with a phone next to her bed, but it remained silent. Morten hadn’t called, and he hadn’t answered his phone on either of the occasions she had tried calling him. On Ida’s voicemail she heard Ida’s soft, cheerful voice asking her to leave a message. It almost hurt to listen to that now, and Nina felt herself cringe inside as she contemplated a short message in a casual voice. “Hi, it’s Mom. Call me,” or “Hi, honey, just wanted to see how you were.”

She gave up, hanging up and setting the phone back down the nightstand. She didn’t want to leave a message. She shouldn’t have to. Her family knew exactly where she was, and a friendly nurse had made sure that Morten got a text message with her direct number.

Nina tried to breathe slowly and calmly. The sun colored the darkness a flickery red whenever she shut her eyes, but it helped. She would rest now, just a little. When she woke up again, Morten could come pick her up, and she could sort out this business with Ida and the break-in.

KOU-LARSEN WOKE UPslowly, disoriented. The TV was on, and the curtains in the living room were drawn. He was lying on the sofa with the crocheted blanket over him, but he couldn’t remember having put it there. His mouth and throat were dry, and he felt like he had been snoring.

He stared up at the wood paneling of the ceiling. Helle had had it whitewashed a few years earlier, it brightened things up so nicely, she said. He thought it looked strangely half-finished, as if someone had started painting and then hadn’t bothered to give it a second coat so it covered properly.

“Helle?” he called.

There was no response. Maybe she was out in the garden? No, probably not now, it must be dark outside. Or was it? He tried to focus on his Tissot watch with the nice, wide-linked watchband—a retirement gift from the office—and when he saw that it was a few minutes to eight, he was genuinely puzzled as to whether it was eight in the morning or eight at night.

But that was the local news on the TV, wasn’t it? So it must be evening. How long had he been lying on the sofa?

“Helle?” He slowly swung his legs out from under the blanket and sat up. How come he felt so weak and dizzy? And Helle still didn’t answer. Was she mad at him again? No. That wasn’t it. The house seemed empty; there weren’t any noises other than those of the house itself—the door upstairs that always banged if the bathroom window was open, a subtle gurgling from the water pipes every now and then, the lilac branches scraping against the windowpane in the office.

He felt abandoned. For a brief instant he had the absurd notion that maybe Helle had decided to leave him. Despite their age difference, it wasn’t a thought that had ever occurred to him before. After all, she was the one who needed him, not the other way around.

Or did she? As he had aged, had there not been a shift in the balance of power between them, so gradual and indiscernible that he had barely noticed it? She had begun to go out on her own lately. Had left the house and the garden without having him by her side, something that had always been hard for her. She had also learned how to use the computer Claus had given them, so she could send e-mails and be in touch with other people that way. He had taken it as a good sign, but perhaps it wasn’t.

Maybe that was how she had ended up buying that idiotic condo in Spain.

This new, unwelcome realization struck him with a burst of small, cold prickles. Of course that was why. She hadn’t been planning it as a surprise, as she had claimed. She had never intended for them to travel there together in the winter months to help his arthritis. She would never have told him about it if he hadn’t found the bank statement himself. Maybe he should count himself lucky that it had turned out to be a scam. If the condo had existed, she might have been down there already, on one of those ocean-front balconies they showed in the pictures in the brochure, enjoying a sangría while her swimsuit dried on the railing. Probably with.…

Who? This was where his foggy imagination faltered. He had a really, really hard time picturing Helle with another man. Not that she wasn’t still attractive in that classic Nordic way, with high cheekbones and silvery streaks in her sun-bleached hair. She had never been an aggressive sun-bather; she usually wore a hat in the garden so her skin wasn’t scorched and ravaged like so many other women of her generation. But she had never been an enthusiastic partner when it came to sex, and in recent years.…

Or was it just him? He had always been patient, considerate, carefully awaiting her response before proceding. Had that been a mistake?

He stood up. Even though he was aware that his actions were paranoid, he went straight to the bedroom and flung open the closet. Not to see if there was a young lover hiding inside, but to see if all her clothes were still there. She hadn’t packed anything. Their suitcases were sitting in their usual spot on top of the white cabinets, and as far as he could tell, nothing was missing.

He proceeded into the bathroom, dumped his toothbrush out of its glass and drank from it, even though the water tasted faintly of Colgate. His mouth was so dry that a cactus would feel at home. He filled the glass again and brought it back out to the living room. Some hairy-chested macho type with sideburns, someone who didn’t wait for permission. Was that the kind of man she had fallen for?

No. Not Helle. He smiled despite his general despondency. She was the last woman in the world who would do something like that.

S HE CAME HOMEa little before 9 P.M., while he was waiting for the Danish Broadcasting Corporation’s evening news to start. She hung her cotton coat on in the hall and came in as if nothing had happened.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she said.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“At Holger and Lise’s, of course. True, we couldn’t play bridge without you, but we had a nice time anyway. Lise made Cordon Bleu. It’s a shame you missed it.”

Holger and Lise. Bridge. Now he remembered.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”