Death By Water by Torkil Damhaug

and on asking if we had a quarrel and all that kind of stuff. If she was depressed and had talked about killing herself.
    – Mailin kill herself?
    – None of us believe anything like that.
    – But somebody has to do something!
    – It doesn’t look as if they have any leads to go on. Tage and I went to the cabin at Morr Water. The police have been out there too. That’s all I know.
     
    Liss stood looking down on Haarlemmerdijk. The café owner on the other side was hanging a Christmas decoration above the entrance. – Someone has to do something, she repeated. Said it aloud. Stood there without moving. Remembered just then about the telephone number.
    She reached an answering service, a woman’s voice speaking in Dutch and then English: This is Judith van Raven’s telephone, please leave a message …
    She showered. Dressed. Put on her make-up. Everything she normally did. Ran down the stairs and let herself out, cut across the street and into the café. From the top of a rickety stepladder the owner beamed at her. He looked to be somewhere in his fifties, with a pink dome framed by a pretzel-shaped rim of grey curls. The steps were up on a table, and a ghostly blonde wearing black was holding them while he hung gold and silver balls from the ceiling. There was music coming from behind the bar. It’s gonna be a cold, cold Christmas.
    She ordered a double espresso and sat by the window. By the time it was finished, she had made up her mind. Ring Zako. Meet him one last time. Ask him straight out if he knew that Mailin was missing. She’d be able to tell if he was lying to her.
    She called his number. It rang four times, five times. A deep male voice answered.
    – Is Zako there?
    – Who’s calling? the voice asked.
    She hesitated before saying: – A friend.
    – A friend? What is your business with him?
    – I asked to speak to Zako, she exclaimed. – Is he there?
    – Zako is dead.
    She almost dropped her phone. – Don’t mess me about. Who the hell are you?
    – Detective Inspector Wouters. Will you please answer the question I asked you?
    She couldn’t remember what he had asked her. Out in Haarlemmerdijk the lights were being turned on. The six-pointed star with the red heart inside. A cyclist went by. A man with a child on a seat in front of him.
    The voice on the phone: – When was the last time you saw Zako?
    From very far away she heard her own answer: – A few days ago. Maybe a week.
    There were more questions. About her relationship to him. About the drugs he used. If they had taken drugs together. She had to provide her full name and address. Tell him what she did in Amsterdam.
    – We may need you to come in for a further talk with us.
    – Of course, she muttered. – I’ll come in.
    Afterwards she sat and stared at her phone. The skin around her mouth prickled. The sensation spread up into her cheeks.
    The proprietor of the café had hung up all his balls and surrounded them with green garlands. He tottered down the rickety stepladder, gave her a smile. – There now. Now Christmas can come.
    From the bar came the sound of John Lennon’s voice: War is over, if you want it. She felt her nose running. Fumbled out a handkerchief. When she took it away, it was full of blood. She pressed it to her nose again, hurried to the toilet.
    – Everything all right? the proprietor asked as she passed him.
    She locked the door. Held the handkerchief under the ice-cold water, used it to press her nostrils together. The diluted blood ran down over her chin and dripped on to the white porcelain.
    Back at her table, she called Rikke. Rikke answered, but couldn’t get a word out.
    – It’s not true, is it? Liss wailed. – Please tell me it isn’t true.
    Rikke ended the call.
    A few minutes later she called back.
    – They found him this morning … two of his cousins … On the sofa … choked on his own vomit.
    Then she was gone again. Liss pushed a note under her coffee cup and struggled out into the