The Forgotten Dead: A dark, twisted, unputdownable thriller - Tove Alsterdal

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shouldn’t they? They never asked to be heroes. They just wanted to play music.’

      I’d read that the band members had quarrelled about it, but in the end they’d taken the name Pulnoc, which means midnight. Because around midnight the misfits come out, those who refused to be captured and governed, a bureaucrat’s worst nightmare of free people who go their own way or push all the boundaries, those who refuse to obey or be shamed or adjust to the norms, the insane and the fantastical. They are the ‘plastic people’.

      ‘But after the Velvet Revolution, they took back their old name, of course, and went on tour, making the most of their legendary reputation. They even played at the Knitting Factory.’

      ‘Were you there?’

      I shook my head. I was nineteen at the time. All dressed up and wearing make-up. With a beer in my hand and a pounding heart, I’d sat at home on my bed, trying to think of what I would say when I went up to them after the gig. The only thing I knew was that two of the band members had played with my father. Maybe. Thirty years ago.

      ‘I didn’t go.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because I didn’t know my father’s name,’ I said, looking down at my hands and swallowing hard. ‘I didn’t know who to ask about.’

       Chapter 5

      Paris

      Thursday, 25 September

      The wind seized hold of the map, practically tearing it out of my hands. I stuffed it back in my bag, walking as quickly as I could in my new shoes. It was a district lacking in any urban planning whatsoever, with old buildings ready for demolition and a few high-rises pointing like grey fingers into the air, at God and the whole world. Men idly leaned against the walls, and I had to dodge past a pusher who came towards me, mumbling an offer to sell me drugs.

      Under normal circumstances I would have worn sneakers and a hoodie if I was venturing into this type of neighbourhood. I would have leaned forward, taking big strides, and no one would have been able to tell whether I was male or female. But right now I was dressed as Madame Alena Sarkanova, who was going to eat lunch at Taillevent in two hours, wearing pumps and a light coat. I’d spent the morning shopping for clothes in the cheapest boutiques I could find close to the hotel. It was almost like being back on the job and having to create a role. After I’d bought everything I needed, there were still several hours left, so I decided to explore the northernmost addresses on my list.

      I assumed that number 61 had to be located a bit further along, on the second side street. I hunched my shoulders and leaned into the wind as I cut across boulevard Michelet. That was why I didn’t see the building before I reached it.

      My mind abruptly stood still.

      In front of me was a black ruin, a phantom. The windows were holes giving way to darkness. I could see the sky right through the seventh floor where the roof had fallen in, taking the wall down with it. On the fourth floor was the skeleton of a charred bed. The smell of smoke still hovered like a nasty irritant in the air.

      It burned down, I thought, as I felt fear tighten in my chest. It burned down on that night. Patrick had yelled something in French on the phone, and then he had left, and this was what had burned. And he didn’t come back.

      Slowly I walked along the fence that had been put up around the site of the fire. It was already scrawled with graffiti. Next to the scorched building on one side was a vacant lot. On the other it leaned towards a low building. At the back someone had made a hole in the fence. I bent down and climbed through. All was quiet. In the middle of the yard lay the remains of a baby buggy. The fabric had been burned away. Only the steel frame, twisted and soot-covered, was left. A row of storerooms or sheds had also burned to the ground.

      I went through a hole that had once been a doorway, paying no attention to the danger. I climbed over glass and rubbish. Put my hand on a wall, turning my palm black. I saw a pile of bags and clothes that must have been set there later, because they were too clean to have survived the fire. Along the wall, double rows of mailboxes dangled close to the floor. I counted them all. Twenty-four. One for each apartment that had burned. The whole place stank of charred plaster and garbage, and I pulled my coat up over my mouth and nose as I climbed over the rubble from the stairway that had collapsed, then headed for the hole of the doorway on the other side.

      A restaurant had been located on the ground floor facing the street. The bar was still intact, while the rest was nothing but cold, black walls. The sign had fallen down outside and lay on the ground, partially obscured by ash and debris. I could make out the first letters: ‘Resta …’

      I checked to see that the ground was free of glass. Then I carefully knelt down and rubbed the sign with the sleeve of my coat until the words were visible. Restaurant Hôtel Royal.

      And all I heard in my head was Patrick’s voice, saying over and over: ‘But what’s burning? But tell me what’s going on, in God’s name!’

      On the door of the café hung a hand-lettered sign: We speak English. I ordered coffee and a baguette with cheese.

      ‘What happened over there?’ I asked the guy behind the bar, pointing towards the ruin that stood a few hundred metres away, across the street.

      The young man shook his head as he filled a glass of beer from the tap.

      ‘Terrible,’ he said. ‘A big fire, big scandal.’

      He gave my clothes an appreciative look. The café seemed to be a local hangout for construction workers, who sat at the tables eating omelettes and drinking beer, as they watched the lottery results on the TV screens. Some came over to the counter to cash in their tickets.

      ‘Seventeen people died.’

      ‘What did you say?’ An icy chill spread from my feet up through my body. ‘How many people did you say died?’

      The young man nodded and held up his hands. ‘Seventeen.’ He set the full glass of beer on a tray and slid it along the bar to a man standing a short distance away.

      The bitter taste of coffee seemed to swell inside my mouth as I let that number sink in.

      ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Why did it burn?’

      ‘Immigrants, you know. Africans. No emergency exits.’ He shook his head and said something to a woman sitting next to me. She was bowed low over her tall glass of beer. She wore garish eye make-up, and her hair hung in long wisps over her shoulders.

      ‘Une tragédie,’ said the woman hoarsely, gesturing wildly. I couldn’t understand the rest of her words.

      ‘They were burned alive,’ the bartender went on. ‘What idiots. They don’t understand a thing. Five, six, eight people living in one room, cooking food, everything.’

      ‘I saw a sign that said the building was a hotel.’

      ‘Hotel,’ he said, using a dishtowel to wipe a glass, which he then held up to the light. ‘Right. Five, six, ten in a single room. Bad place. Children too. Women and children.’

      A man with splotches of paint on his clothes and drooping bags under his eyes approached the bar, holding out several lottery tickets. The bartender went over to cash them in. The old woman kept on talking to herself, muttering something about ‘la grande tragédie, une catastrophe’, as she sank deeper into her beer glass.

      The taste of old smoke settled in my mouth when I inhaled. Patrick had checked out of his hotel on Tuesday. The hotel had burned in the early morning hours of the previous Saturday. He must have jumped into a cab and raced across Paris, maybe because he thought he could save those poor people. But he was unquestionably alive the next day. Three days later he had checked out, according to the hotel staff.

      I need to fill in the gaps, I thought. Figure out

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