Invisible Murder (Nina Borg #2) by Agnete Friis, Lene Kaaberbøl
Authors: Agnete Friis, Lene Kaaberbøl
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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
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
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