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- Herausgeber: Muswell Press
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
Copenhagen is a mysterious city where strange and sinister things often happen. Menacing and at times darkly humourous there are echos of Roald Dahl and Daphne du Maurier in these stories, many of which have been commissioned for Radio 4
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Last Train to Helsingør
HEIDI AMSINCK
To my mother and father
Contents
Last Train to Helsingør
As the train left Copenhagen Central Station, Henrik Borg set down his briefcase and cooled his forehead on the windowpane. He always did so at the precise moment when the platform began to glide away. He closed his eyes and let the receding lights from the station flicker across his face.
For years Borg had taken the last train home from the office. He always sat by a window and always at the far end of the last carriage, which left him with only a short distance to walk at the other end.
Tonight was like any other in all respects but one. Borg had been persuaded by a colleague to join a drinks party and had indulged in not one, but two large glasses of beer. There was a smile on his lips. His wife always said that he should be more adventurous, and now he had been, and it had passed off very well.
His initial fears about the evening had been unfounded. In fact, it had been a pleasing little break from his routine, which normally saw him working straight through from supper.
It was springtime, and they had been sitting like Parisians amidst the bustle of a square. Borg was not drunk exactly, but relaxed and at peace with the world. The carriage was warm and gently vibrating. There was a soothing, rhythmic knocking sound as it rolled along the tracks, and now and again sparks illuminated the railway cutting with a screech of grinding metal.
He supposed drinking beer was not a real adventure but it was as much as Borg could do. He did not care for fun in the way that other people did, nor weekends and holidays with their bothersome expectations of pleasure. Borg liked Monday mornings, and he liked the train. Not that he had to take public transport. He had done well for himself and could afford to drive a Mercedes to and from work. There was a parking space for each of the partners at the office, but Borg preferred the train, because it was predictable. Nothing stopped it haring through the dark as the people of the suburbs lay fast asleep. He liked the soft, warm seats, the way the plush upholstery tickled his fingers.
There were other professional types on the train. Borg nodded at them in a spirit of fraternity. Together they kept watch over the drunks and other human detritus that washed up on the late-night service. They had to be tolerated, but Borg knew that the train belonged to the likes of him: the people who kept the world spinning round.
He watched as the train cleared the inner-city stops in fast succession, always a little uneasy when it rolled into a platform. You never knew who might step in. Besides, those stops were like an invitation, as if the train itself were tempting Borg to step out and explore. He always looked at the ceiling, willing the carriage to start moving again.
His late nights at the office suited both him and his wife. By the time he got home, she was fast asleep in the spare room that she had made her own. It was an orderly arrangement, protecting their two worlds from unpleasant collisions. And his wife was more than happy for him to take his time in the mornings; she rarely stirred before midday.
The train was softly lit. In the window, Borg saw the silhouettes of houses, posts and fences passing across his reflection. The last passengers in his carriage got out at Hellerup. He could relax now until Helsingør.
Borg closed his eyes, feeling the train gently oscillating. The motion set him in mind of galloping across the plains of the Wild West, like the cowboys of his boyhood picture books. Within minutes he was fast asleep, cantering through a cartoon landscape of cacti and stone formations.
Later, the first thing he became aware of was the cold, then the utter silence. Before he opened his eyes, he felt a light on his face, which was odd, because it was completely dark all around him.
It took Borg some moments to remember where he was. ‘Hello,’ he said, pointlessly, for it was plain that he was quite alone in the carriage.
As his eyes got used to the gloom, Borg saw trees and bushes outside the window next to him. He got up and walked over to the other window and saw more trees further away. He looked at his watch. He had been asleep for nearly an hour, so the train must have been to Helsingør already.
He fumbled for his phone, grateful when his hand finally closed around the smooth pebble, but it had no power left. He always charged the phone before he left the office, but, of course, tonight he had gone out instead of working.
Now Borg was frightened. Something had happened, something awful, and he was unable to phone for help.
With some difficulty he managed to open the door by pulling the emergency handle. His legs trembled as he emerged onto a narrow tarmac platform, and almost buckled under him when he saw that the rest of the train had gone.
There was a wooden shelter on the platform and a post with a sign, but the name had faded and was illegible in the dark. It looked like a disused station, perhaps now deployed as a siding by the railway company. His carriage had somehow become detached from the rest of the train and left there.
If only he had never drunk those beers, he would not have fallen asleep on the train. He never had before, in all his life, and now look what had happened.
A movement at the far end of the platform startled him. It was a man slowly walking away, pushing a bicycle. A bell tinkled faintly as he went, and there was a bright light bouncing from the front.
Borg was relieved. He soon caught up with the man. ‘Thank God, there’s someone else here. I fell asleep. Where are we?’
The man shot him a look, more weary than unfriendly. He said nothing in reply.
Borg noticed that that the bicycle had an old-fashioned carbide lamp attached to it. Had the man held up that lamp and looked through the window of the railway carriage as Borg sat sleeping? Was that what had woken him?
The man looked odd in his worn corduroy suit. His glasses were held together with brown tape.
‘Do you know this place?’ Borg said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Can you tell me where I might find a payphone?’
The man shrugged. He started walking but not as fast as he could. After a moment he stopped, his face half-turned.
‘You want me to follow you? Is that it?’ Borg said, guessing that the man might be foreign or speech-impaired.
The man nodded once and began to walk again, this time without stopping. Borg decided it would better to follow than remain at the siding by himself.
He thought there would be houses where he could call for help, but he saw none at all. The platform ran into a narrow gravel path that led into woods. Then he and the man seemed to walk for a very long time, with only their crunching steps and the faint tinkle of the bell to break the silence. The woods smelled of leaf mould and wild garlic. Borg shivered in the damp cold. The briefcase was heavy, and he had to keep transferring it from one hand to the other
He almost cried with gratitude when finally he spotted a faint light through the branches. There were people here after all, civilisation. Soon afterwards, he and his mute companion reached a set of tall iron gates. The man got out a key and opened them, carefully relocking them once they were through. The heavy chain seemed draconian, but Borg guessed it was there for a reason. A property in so isolated a position would be vulnerable to burglary.
They walked towards a handsome white manor house, standing at the end of a long straight drive bordered by trees. As they got nearer, Borg could see outbuildings and what looked like stables. He smelled manure and livestock and, more vaguely, a salty tang. The house had to be by the sea, somewhere near Helsingør.
Up close, from the cobbled courtyard, the house looked even more impressive. Honey-coloured light streamed from several windows. Borg was lifted by the sight. He happily followed the silent man through the front door. It clanged shut behind them.
The vast, high-ceilinged entrance hall was a surprise. Borg was certain he had never seen anything so beautiful. There were trees and flowering plants everywhere, growing from large, brass pots scattered about the floor. And hanging from the ceiling and perched on stands, dozens of birdcages full of budgerigars, yellow, blue, green and turquoise, fluorescent in the gloom. When he approached, Borg saw that the birds were sleeping, heads tucked under their wings.
They keep birds. So they must be nice people, he thought.
The sound of loud voices made him turn. Two old women had entered the room, obviously roused out of bed. They wore dressing gowns and their long, silvery hair hung loose over their shoulders. Borg was reminded of his grandmother, a mild-mannered woman who had looked after him during his school holidays.
He noticed that the women’s faces were identical.
‘Joachim!’ exclaimed one of the twins, clapping her hands. ‘What have you got for us this time?’
‘Yes,’ said the other, stepping up close. ‘What are you?’
Borg felt confused. He looked from one face to the other.
‘I … I’m a lawyer,’ he stammered.
‘Oh,’ said the first twin, her smile fading.
‘Oh dear,’ said the other with a frown. ‘We already have three of those. Do you not cook or butcher or keep bees? We need a beekeeper, desperately.’
‘Look here,’ said Borg, trying to muster his most authoritative voice. ‘My name is Henrik Borg. I am a highly esteemed solicitor, partner of Borg, Wiesener and Bundgård. Something unfortunate happened. I fell asleep on the train to Helsingør and woke up in a siding where your good man here found me. Now would you be so kind as to lend me your telephone? I shall be out of here before you know it.’
‘Oh, we don’t have telephone,’ said one of the twins. ‘But we always welcome lost travellers.’
‘I am Andrea von Trauen,’ she said. ‘And this is my sister Dorothea. You’ll be very comfortable here with us. Everyone always is.’
Borg was astounded. ‘You mean I am not the first person this has happened to?’
‘Goodness no,’ said the first twin.
‘Though it has been over a year,’ said the other. ‘That’s why we’re so excited.’
Borg counted his options. The only thing he could think of was walking to the nearest house. In the dark and cold, this would not be pleasant. Besides, by the time he got a taxi it would be halfway through the night.
‘Now,’ said one of the women. ‘We have a bedroom ready for you. Joachim will take you there and make sure that you have everything you need.’
‘And then we will see about things in the morning,’ said the other.
Yes, thought Borg, Why not? A bed for the night in the house of these eccentric old sisters. What could possibly happen?
His wife would not miss him. And, if drinking beer after work did not amount to an adventure, this certainly did. It would be an amusing story to tell tomorrow when he was back at the office.
His room was large if somewhat fusty, with its mahogany bedstead and heavy brocades. A window overlooked the back of the property, but it was too dark to see anything outside.
Joachim, who was obviously some sort of factotum in the household, pointed to a tray with a glass of milk and a couple of plain biscuits. He hesitated in the doorway, his eyes resting on Borg’s for a few seconds, as if he were about to speak. Then he was gone.
Borg sat on the bed in his underwear and socks. He drank the milk and nibbled on the biscuits, which were the kind his mother used to give him when he was little and under the weather. Their sweetness, mixed with the creamy, warm milk, was oddly comforting to Borg. He had no trouble sleeping. In fact, he was out cold as soon as he had wriggled under the heavy eiderdown.
He woke with a leaden head. The sun hurt his eyes. There were voices, whispering next to his bed.
‘I agree with you, dear Andrea, that he is a not a muscular man and perhaps a little disappointing all round, but there are plenty of good uses for him.’
‘All right, Dorothea, if you think so. We will put him to weeding the rose beds and then we’ll see where we go from there.’
Borg sat up with a start. Judging by the bright light, it was midday already. He looked for his watch. It was gone, as were his clothes and his briefcase. The sisters, now dressed austerely in black dresses, with their hair scraped back into tight buns, stared at him with patient curiosity. There were bundles of keys dangling from their waistbands.
‘What’s this?’ yelled Borg. ‘Where are my—’ But he halted abruptly, for a sharp bolt of pain had taken his breath away. It came from his neck. He felt with his hands and found a metal collar there, fastened tightly with a padlock.
‘Why are you—?’ Again, he was halted by a searing pain.
He noticed Joachim standing by the door and working a set of switches on a small box with an antenna, which looked very much like a remote-control device.
‘There, there, Henrik,’ said one of the sisters. ‘Everyone is like that at first. You’ll soon get used to speaking only when asked.’
Borg leapt out of bed, wondering if they would stop him from moving. But they didn’t seem to mind him crossing the floor.
He looked out of the window at vast kitchen gardens and, beyond, fields with sheep and cows. He could also see a hen run, a pig sty and an orchard with fruit trees. There were people everywhere, calmly going about their work. No one spoke.
He heard the rustle of skirts as the sisters came up behind him.
‘The farm was our father’s, but we couldn’t cope after he died. Then one night Joachim arrived, just like you did, from the old station. It only took a small amount of persuasion to make him stay,’ one of them said.
‘It was Joachim who thought of the collars. He used to be a science professor,’ said the other. ‘By the way, if you attempt to cross the boundary, you’ll get a nasty shock, but there’s no need for you to worry about that.’
‘Think of it as an exchange,’ said her sister. ‘You help us, and we help you. Ours is a life of strict rules and routines. You will work and you will see the fruits of that work on your dinner plate. Each day will be the same: no changes and no surprises. You will like it, I assure you. Everyone does eventually, for what more can one possibly want from life than this, Henrik?’
Helplessly, Borg followed the sweep of her wrinkled hand. He would have said that he wasn’t much good at gardening or anything else remotely practical, for that matter, but he was too frightened to speak and dared only shake his head a little.
He thought of his wife, who would be starting to wonder where he was, vaguely, before rolling over in bed with her sleeping mask and earplugs. His colleagues would joke about him being hung-over for the first time in his life. Then, after a week, they would remind each other that Henrik had been working hard before he disappeared, and that people under stress were capable of the most unpredictable behaviour, even walking out of their lives without so much as a goodbye.
No one would come looking for him, least of all in this place. No one would ever suspect the last train to Helsingør.
The Music Box
Seated in the front row of the auction room, Verner could hardly contain himself. With clammy hands he clutched his catalogue, willing the auctioneer to move faster through the lots, an endless stream of clocks and mechanical toys in which he had no interest whatsoever.
Over and over he read the description: Rare Polyphon disc-playing music box known as ‘The Schönwald’, set in a hand-built walnut cabinet with latticework and painted Danube motif. Leipzig, 1875.
Twenty-eight years ago he had sat in this same seat, only to watch Oscar Persson from Malmö outbid him. But Persson was dead now, and Verner was old, with liver spots creeping across his hands and enough money to buy anything he wanted.
He looked over his shoulder at the packed room, satisfied to recognise no more than a couple of small-time collectors in the crowd. As he had learnt to his cost, you could not win at auction against someone willing to pay any price, and he had instructed his banker to prepare for the transfer of a very large sum of money indeed.
The Schönwald was one of the finest Polyphons ever made, a music box with a sound so pure it was said to be like listening to the angels play their harps. In over a hundred years, only a handful of people had heard it, and now Verner was about to become one of them.
There was nothing in the catalogue about the curse, but Verner knew the story. It had been all over the papers again that morning.
The Polyphon had been built on commission for Franz Schönwald, a merchant from Cologne, as a wedding present for his wife Maria. She had adored The Blue Danube – composed by Johann Strauss a few years earlier – so this was the only tune the Polyphon played.
According to the story, Maria listened to the music box only once, as shortly afterwards a chandelier in the Schönwald mansion dropped from the ceiling and killed her on the spot. Distraught, Franz Schönwald forbade anyone from playing the Polyphon again.
When he died, the music box passed to his nephew, whose young daughter Katharina found it in the attic and played it before anyone could stop her. Shortly afterwards, she died in a house fire.
Since then the Polyphon had passed through five owners, four of whom had supposedly died in accidents after playing it. The sixth, Oscar Persson, had kept it in a locked cabinet and never touched it, or so he had claimed.
No doubt the story was good publicity for the auction house, Verner thought to himself. But whatever anyone said, the Polyphon had not wrenched the chandelier free from the ceiling, nor struck a match and set fire to the house. It was not bad luck that killed people, but lack of care.
When, finally, the Polyphon was wheeled in front of the auctioneer, Verner had to concentrate hard not to leap up and shout with both hands in the air. In the hush that had fallen over the room, his heart was a booming drum.
As tall as a man, the top of the Polyphon was crafted in the style of a fairy-tale castle with columns and turrets and tiny windows and doors. In the centre, behind glass, sat a perforated steel disc, and on the bottom panel an exquisite painting showed a stretch of the Danube with a wooded bank, a white castle and snow-capped mountains just visible in the distance.
There were other bidders, but in the end they must have sensed that Verner would have kept raising his hand until everyone had left and the lights had been switched off, for one by one they folded, shaking their heads.
Finally the auctioneer pointed at Verner and dropped his gavel hard, and there was a gasp around the room.
As he put on his fur hat and left, Verner noticed two people get up and follow him. In the vestibule, he turned around to be blinded by a flash.
‘Are you concerned by the curse, Mr Borg? Will you be playing the music box?’
Verner didn’t normally speak to reporters, but on this occasion he was happy to make an exception.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall play it and I shall enjoy it, and you shall see there is no such thing as a curse, only silly stories.’
It wasn’t until he had left the building and sat in his car outside that he permitted himself the tiniest of smiles.
It was a whole twenty-four hours before the Polyphon could be delivered, and the waiting was sheer agony.
Sleepless, he got out of bed and walked through his apartment and stood by the window to look out at the city. Far below him, Sortedamsøen lay like a black mirror, ringed by street lights. Somewhere out there, the Polyphon would be standing in a dark warehouse, with a label with his name on it, and the thought of it made his heart flutter.
