The Runaway Husband
The Runaway Husband
And the many dangers of flat-hunting.
Author’s note: This is Episode 1 of a brand-new Thorfinn Grimm story. Here’s a link to the full index so you can catch up on previous adventures. Enjoy!
People come and go. I know this better than most. But despite the painful transience of life, there are some people who leave an indelible mark. My life would be very different indeed if I hadn’t met Mrs Ellen Kruger. She entered my life the same way many others have: with a knock on the door and a problem on her mind.
The first time I saw her standing outside my door, her appearance reminded me of a school nurse who patched up my arm once. She had the same warmth about her, like a favourite aunt who bakes cookies and lets you drink wine. I knew instantly that I would do everything in my power to help this woman.
Of course, her timing couldn’t have been worse. It was early in the morning, I was still half-asleep, and I’d just discovered that I was being evicted. I had seven days to find a new flat or it was off to Iceland to face a fate worse than death: living with my family.
I invited Mrs Kruger in. She took a quick look around my one-room flat and asked “You really live like this?”
I told her it was only temporary and offered her the only chair that didn’t have any junk on it. She sat gingerly at the edge of the seat, balancing a very large handbag on her knees.
“This is a private matter, Mr Grimm,” she said. “I hope I can count on your discretion. It’s my husband, Philip. He’s missing.”
“It’s been a few days since Mr Kruger disappeared,” I remarked. “And it’s clear there’s no love lost between you. So why come to me?”
“How do you know that?” she asked in a measured voice.
“I still read newspapers,” I told her. “I saw your advertisement offering a reward for information about his current whereabouts.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Kruger. “I thought you’d done something clever.”
“As for the state of your relationship,” I continued. “That’s clear from the way your nails are digging into that handbag. You’re not worried, you’re furious.”
“I bloody well am,” she muttered. “I want you to find that idiot and bring him to me. Can you do that, Mr Grimm?”
“I suppose I could try,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I have a lot of cases at the moment.”
“Let me sweeten the deal,” said Mrs Kruger. “I don’t have a lot of money but I do have a flat you could rent. Two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bath.”
“Is it… furnished?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But I’ve got a bed you can have for free.”
“Mrs Kruger,” I said. “I will find your husband if it’s the last thing I do. Also, you can call me Thorfinn.”
Mr Kruger was a customs officer. He was last seen in his office at the port at around 4 pm on Friday. After Mrs Kruger left, I wolfed down a quick breakfast and headed straight there.
I learned from the security guards that Mr Kruger punched out at 5:07 exactly but nobody saw him leave. The Krugers had been having problems for years and everybody, including the police, assumed he’d simply run away, possibly with a mistress. I wasn’t so sure.
Mr Kruger was responsible for a section of the storage depot that contained more than 12,000 shipping containers from all over the world. For the next six hours, I roamed past rows and rows of containers stacked one on top of another, a veritable city buzzing with activity, with forklifts crisscrossing its streets and cranes constantly remodelling its skyline. Finally, in an obscure corner of this great metropolis, I found what I was looking for.
When Mrs Kruger arrived I was talking to Craig, one of the crane operators. I introduced them and I think they might have hit it off.
“The case is all but solved,” I informed Mrs Kruger. “Craig’s going to help us with the last bit.”
With an enthusiastic nod, Craig climbed into his mighty machine and went to work. The crane rumbled and growled as he guided its arm past the tall towers to the secluded corner I’d marked. Its claw then descended with loud whirring and snatched up a large blue container, which Craig deposited rather roughly at our feet. I stepped forward and opened the doors. Inside was a small balding man, sprawled on the floor with toilet paper and food wrappers all around him. He looked almost like a mole, blinking in the afternoon light.
“Ellen?” he said, his face turning pale. “What are you doing here?”
Mrs Kruger reached into her handbag and for a moment, I thought she was going for a gun. It wasn’t a gun.
“I want a divorce,” she said, taking out a stack of papers and shoving them in her husband’s face. “Sign there, there, and there.”
“What?” Mr Kruger blubbered. “But how did you find me?”
“According to the register, this section has 12,562 containers,” I said. “But in reality, there are 12,563. It was just a matter of finding the one container that didn’t have a shipping label.”
“What do you mean you counted the containers?” he asked, his mouth hanging open in utter astonishment. “All the containers? Who would even do that?”
I shrugged. “I’m just a man looking for a flat on a budget,” I said. “You’re lucky she didn’t ask me to kill you.”
“Actually, Mr Grimm,” Mrs Kruger interrupted. “The rent is 2750 a month and you have to pay for utilities. You might need to find a roommate.”
“Still worth it.”
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I was packing up my stuff, happily humming a tune to myself, when Mrs Kruger called. She asked me to go over to her place right away. I ran into a demonstration on the way, protesting some genocide or other, so it took me a little time to get to Mrs Kruger’s building.
It was a centrally located, pre-war, three-floor townhouse. The Krugers lived on the ground floor and there was a lovely Armenian family on the first. Mr and Mrs Kruger led me up to the third floor and showed me the flat I would be renting.
It was perfect. A reception/drawing room with a working fireplace, an open kitchen, two decently sized bedrooms, and a shared bathroom. And all the rooms (except the bath, obviously) had large windows that let in lots of natural light. Even though I knew I couldn’t afford it on my own, I couldn’t wait to move in.
Mrs Kruger coughed to catch my attention. “Phil has something he needs to tell you,” she said, elbowing her husband.
We adjourned to the drawing room. The Krugers sat side-by-side on a three-seater sofa and I drew up a chair. Mr Kruger kept glancing at the door and the windows. I asked him what was on his mind.
“I’ve been, uh, accepting payments,” he said hesitantly. “Payments of a non-legal nature, you understand, in exchange for turning a blind eye to certain things going in and out of port.”
I asked him who he was working for but he didn’t know.
“Never met ‘em,” he said. “Just a voice on the phone. Now, they didn’t want me looking in the containers but sometimes I’d take a peek; just to satisfy my curiosity, you know. Usually, it was just electronics, household chemicals, that sort of thing. One time it was guns; that scared me a little. But this last week…”
He trailed off, glancing fearfully at the window again.
“Look, I didn’t know what I was getting into,” he said. “These are dangerous people, Mr Grimm. That’s why I had to disappear.”
“What did you find in the container this week?” I pressed him.
Mr Kruger’s face went deathly pale and he reached out a hand towards his wife. Mrs Kruger shifted out of his reach, shooting him an angry look.
“It was a woman, Mr Grimm,” he said. “A dead woman in a box. And I recognised her. It was-”
There was a loud crash as the window shattered, spraying glass in every direction. Mrs Kruger and I immediately took cover and when we looked up again, we saw blood gushing from a bullet wound in Mr Kruger’s chest. His mouth was open and his eyes were cold and lifeless.
“Well,” Mrs Kruger said as I helped her to her feet. “I don’t suppose you can move in now, the place is a crime scene.”
I said, “How do you think I found my last flat?”
To Be Continued.
Love that last line!
Interesting, waiting for the next episode