by Mark, David
By the time he returned to the homestead, the damage was done, entering the downstairs rooms out of breath, eyes wide. Someone had been through the place like a tornado in a jar. Everywhere he looked papers, food, chairs were upended, littered across the floor, taking minutes to go through every inch of the place in the time it had taken one solitary cat to burn to cinder. Ash watched in dismay as Conrad cursed his stupidity, spinning to face them, his neck ringed bright red. ‘Not a word of this gets to Almquist,’ he spat, raising a finger. ‘Not one!’
Friday 16th October 1987
She needed to pee. Ulrika woke with a jerk to the voices of the two captors speaking a language she didn’t understand. They were still somewhere within the forest. The birds told her that. She lay outstretched, face buried in the back seat, tape over her eyes, consumed by the stink of petrol and stale tobacco. Her ankles and wrists hurting badly, she tried to concentrate on taking the pain, the fear of drawing attention to herself outweighing her need for relief.
Someone opened the passenger door. Cold air. She was pushed roughly back down into the seat. A hand grabbed her by the mouth, fingers smelling of dirt behind a sharp, unpleasant smell that spoke of unhealthy skin, penetrating the soft flesh of her cheeks. Ulrika screamed as the tape was ripped off her eyes, stinging her, blinking in the light, trying to focus.
The first thing she noticed was a soiled field dressing, stained dark with blood. The dressing was wrapped around a hand unusually narrow at the end, as if it was stunted. The realization hit her like a sledgehammer. Missing fingers. She shook, looking around and fearing the worst. He was staring at her, close enough so she could see a small scar. It looked like it had been caused by a knife, running down the side of his nose. The way he looked at her, passively, to be discarded as if she was nothing more than a bug, weighing whether he should crush her. Or not. If he was going to kill her he would already have done it by now.
Did they want her, or the painting?
‘Who are you?’ she said, looking from one man to the other; the man with the dressing dressed in green, the driver with the bandaged arm dressed in khaki. ‘Where are you taking me?’ She tried to sound brave, but heard the fear in her own voice.
She really needed to pee. Her bladder hurt. The man in khaki glanced at her from the driver’s seat; he wore an annoyed expression and nodded to his companion with the dressing on his hand, the man in green still looking at her. It was the way he stood back, mouth hanging slightly open. He leaned forward as he placed his good hand in his smock pocket, heavy stubble and cold gray eyes completing a depressing picture. She drew back instinctively.
His arm shot out, fingers clamping over her mouth again, pulling her towards him. His fingers dug once again into the soft skin of her cheeks, hurting her. For a moment she feared he was going to kiss her, forcefully. Then she saw the cloth pad which he placed over her mouth.
‘Shut up,’ he said in a low, coarse voice. Then he smiled, revealing dirty teeth, pointing his finger at her, jerking it as if it was a gun with eyes as cold as the Baltic. She tried to pull back but he tightened his grip, then secured the pad with more tape, holding her jaw tightly as she trembled uncontrollably. He pushed her down, throwing her on her side, pulling the blanket over her. ‘Your boyfriend,’ he hissed softly through the coarse material. ‘He like to fuck,’ he said with a heavy foreign accent. Then he leaned closer, so she could hear his breath through the coarse cloth of the material. ‘He like to fuck your pussy.’ And then he laughed, a laugh filthier than a broken beer bottle used as an ashtray. ‘I like to fuck your pussy.’
Before he could do anything else she moved her legs around the blanket, forcing herself to empty her bladder.
Justin watched Ash tear off a piece of white bread and wipe it around his plate, drying the juices of bacon fat, smearing the remains of tomato sauce around the rim. He put it in his mouth, chewing as he took in the room around them.
Everything had returned to normal. Not ten minutes after they had found the cat, two officers returned looking rather sheepish at having fallen for a ruse. Whatever the ruse had been, they didn’t say, but they suspected it had involved the cat screech they had heard, drawing them out of their car and away from the road. That didn’t help the unease eating away at him from the inside, all signs they had been broken into removed as if nothing had happened at all.
‘Almquist was trying to tell us Thomas had his eyes poked out just like that SFC turned into fried chicken,’ Ash added, as if nothing untoward had happened at all, trying his best to sound cheerful.
‘Do you mind?’ Daniel said, ‘I happen to like fried chicken.’
Ash licked his fingers noisily as he looked across at Justin, his face losing some of the false frivolity. ‘Almquist was fishing yesterday.’ He glanced towards the teapot as he tore off another piece of bread, stuffing that into his mouth, looking at the open book on the table.
‘Let him fish,’ Conrad said quietly, placing the coffee pot on the old stove.
‘We should tell him,’ Justin insisted, voicing his concern. ‘It’s not right.’
Conrad turned on him. ‘If we mention they’ve been inside we’ll never get out of here for another week!’ He searched him. ‘It doesn’t make any difference to anything. We need to take control, Almquist is getting nowhere.’
They fell quiet as Ash munched his way through the left-overs on Justin’s plate. ‘Conrad’s right. Fuck it, we have to think of ourselves. They could have shot us.’
Ash was right. They could have been killed if they’d gotten in the way, Justin knew that with what had happened to Ulrika. He felt scared and had no idea how the others dealt with it.
‘Still, we were lucky Almquist took it when he did,’ Ash added, nodding approval in Justin’s direction.
Justin watched Conrad return to his rocking chair, nothing more to be said. Why were they so desperate to get their hands on it? They couldn’t know that the painting was in Police hands. So they were looking, looking for anything. They were desperate. They had Ulrika. She must have told them. They might have killed her by now. Justin raised his hand and placed it on the table. ‘We still have this.’
Ash blinked. ‘Bloody hell, your old drawing.’
Conrad sat up, looking at Justin’s drawing without comment.
‘That’s neat Justin,’ Daniel said, admiring it. ‘Real neat...’
‘We have this legend about the dead. We have Thomas dead, though we don’t how, or why.’
‘And,’ Justin said with sadness in his heart. ‘Ulrika’s gone, all because of a painting.’
‘All because of Thomas,’ Ash replied, as he pushed his plate away as if in disgust. ‘You know, I could murder some fried chicken right now.’
Daniel smiled.
‘So who the hell fried the cat?’ Conrad looked around.
‘Not SFC, FFC - Fucking Fried Cat,’ Ash said with a stupid grin.
‘That’s not what I meant.’
‘I know what you meant Conrad. Christ, where did they get you from?’
Conrad sent Ash a look. Justin looked at his empty plate.
‘So you think Agard would have known about the church?’ Conrad said changing the subject.
Justin nodded, engaging his brain. ‘I think he hated the clergy.’
‘Well, he would. He was a religious nut,’ Ash added. ‘This has something to do with the church and they aren’t alone neither. I reckon they want the Hangman for different reasons.’
Daniel frowned. ‘What reasons?’
‘I dunno, pray to the damn thing or something,’ Ash said emphatically, leaning forward and reaching for the teapot, pouring himself another cup, adding milk from a small white jug.
‘No such luck,’ Daniel said.
So much for a secure perimeter, Justin thought as Ash pointed at his drawing, one he had made before they had left. He was pointing at something he’d drawn in the background, behind the figure of the man, arms high above him, as if part of the tree.
‘That’s a lake here, Unden. Mr. Agar painted old Hörgrlund, before it became a bleedin’ church.’ He tapped the drawing with his finger, ‘I don’t think Agard painted Trollkyrka, or anything in Tiveden.’ He turned to look outside, as if he could see the church from the window but there was nothing to be seen.
Daniel was leaning over Justin’s drawing, as if for the first time. ‘Did you really do this?’
Justin nodded. ‘Now we don’t have the painting, it will have to do.’
Daniel took it all in, eyes scanning the lines, the pencil strokes, shading and detail. ‘Dude – this is amazing.’
Ash glanced at it as he took another piece of bread, mopping up the last of the grease on Justin’s plate. He pointed his fork at the drawing. ‘The question is, why kill someone for the painting?’ he said chewing again, ‘I mean, nobody does that, not for some old bit of art or anything. Not unless, it was something like, really worth something, right? And I mean more than just a few bob.’
‘It depends on the people,’ Daniel said quietly, laying the drawing down gently in front of him. ‘
Conrad lowered his eyes to the floor. ‘Do you have any idea what it could be.’
Justin detected a slightly pleading tone in his voice he hadn’t heard before. As if he wanted to make sure he was the only one in the know. Ash shook his head, then picked up a box of matches, turning it over in his hands.
‘Almquist,’ Conrad said, standing up and walking towards the door. He stopped by the open doorway. ‘I’m going to be gone for a while.’
Ash narrowed his eyes. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Stay here until I get back.’ He said sharply, then without further explanation turned and left the room, followed by the sound of his footsteps then the sound of an opening door.
Justin stood up and walked to the window, watching Conrad as he walked to the police car. They wound down their window. One of them picked up the police radio, speaking into it as Conrad stood by. A moment later the policeman nodded and Justin watched in surprise as Conrad walked to his black CX, opening the unlocked door and getting in.
‘Conrad’s buggering off... him and his gun.’
Conrad had hidden the gun back under his car he knew, watching the lights come on.
‘Where’s he off to then?’ Ash stood next to him. They watched Conrad for a moment. ‘He’s taking his bloody car, he’s off.’ Ash muttered, watching the car rise up on its magical suspension.
Daniel came and stood, all three watching as the black Citroën backed out, then approached the exit, turning into the road.
‘That’s it, I’ve had enough. Bollocks, we leave tonight,’ Ash said, turning around to look at Daniel and Justin with an angry look in his eye.
‘In whose car?’ Justin said.
‘Not Conrad – look where coming with him got us,’ he looked around at the two gathered faces.
Eventually, Justin nodded. ‘Yeah... okay,’ he nodded again. ‘Ulrika’s car?’
Ash looked at the floor for a moment.
‘What if she comes back?’
Ash turned back to the outline of Ulrika’s car. ‘Then we apologize and pay her a modest fee. We leave when it’s dark. If Conrad comes back, we wait until he’s asleep.’
Even though it was morning, the sky had darkened, threatening rain. Almquist sat in his car, listening to the nine o’clock news, wondering if the hurricane that had hit the English Channel during the night was on its way to Sweden. The worst storm of the century they were already calling it, much of Southern England devastated, millions of trees down, electrical supplies of electricity disrupted and stock market trading suspended. He listened to the rest of the broadcast, then left his car, crossing the familiar puddle-pockmarked stretch of broken ground leading to the entrance to the store, pushing open the sticker-covered door, entering a dark store. He closed the door behind him, the bell announcing his presence. There was one other customer, an elderly lady looking at dog food. She stood in front of shelves: silent rows lit from above by three lamps, sending a stark shadow across a dark blue linoleum floor. A man in his late twenties appeared from the back, wiping his hands on a white blemished butcher’s apron. Tall and thin with an equally tall and thin face, regarding Almquist without saying anything. Bok was nowhere to be seen.
‘I’m looking for Alvar Bok.’
The shop assistant nodded, leaning forward, then turned and looked out of the window, past the stickers towards the orange Saab.
‘Alvar Bok, is he here?’ Almquist said.
He looked at Almquist, hesitating.
‘Where is he?’
‘He’s not here.’ His tone was neutral, but strained. ‘Who wants to know?’
A hint of stress. Almquist raised his eyebrow and with an air of resignation he reluctantly removed his ID from his inside pocket. ‘Hasse Almquist. Örrebro Police. Did he say where he had gone?’
The assistant kept his eyes glued to Almquist’s ID. ‘Hunting.’ His eyes flicked upwards. ‘He says he won’t be back for a few days.’
‘A few days? Do you know where he goes hunting? It’s important I speak with him.’
The assistant shrugged. ‘He does that from time to time. Goes off hunting. Sometimes for days at a time, until he gets something.’
Almquist took a look around at the lady and the empty aisles. ‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘He has some place. A hunting lodge. I don’t know where it is.’
He wouldn’t. Almquist removed his eyes from the stand of axes and turned to look back at the assistant, who was leaning with his hands face down on top of the counter.
‘He likes to be alone.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know.’
Almquist reached for his wallet. Irritated, he removed a calling card. ‘If he turns up, if you would ask him to contact me... as soon as possible.’ With a nod, he left and walked out of the store, head down against the cold wind blowing from the west.
He walked to his car, inserting the key into the door lock, turning it and getting in. He was about to start the car when he noticed someone walking towards him from the direction of a familiar black Citroën, recognizing with a start the tired expectant face of Conrad Baron.
Chapter 13
RETURN TO TIVED
Odin understood the songs
by which the earth, the hills,
The stones, and mounds were opened to him;
and he bound those who
dwell in them by the power of his word,
and went in and took what he pleased.
Yngling saga
Snorri Sturluson
Heimskringla: The Chronicle of the Kings of Norway
What the hell was he doing here?
Conrad Baron opened the front passenger door, getting in next to Almquist. Almquist waited until he was seated before asking him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said in an understated voice.
‘I could ask you the same thing.’ Conrad said, face somber.
Almquist thought Conrad Baron’s graying hair had become more white in the hours he had known him; he knew how he felt. ‘You’re not supposed to leave the homestead. But you know that.’ He looked across. ‘So why are you here?’
Conrad reached into his overcoat and leaned over, offering Almquist a small plastic card folded neatly in two. On the front were the words Joint Intelligence Services of the United Kingdom.
He frowned. ‘Intelligence Services?’
Conrad just looked at him. ‘MI6.’
Almquist nodded, ‘the Embassy, of course. How did you know I would be here?’
‘I had to speak with you. I was told you weren’t available.’
Almquist frowned. Who... Oskar. he waved the card. ‘Your ID?’ Almquist looked at the picture. He looked younger. Healthier.
‘We prefer not to call ourselves secret anymore.’ Conrad Baron smiled.
Law enforcement agencies of countries operating under E.C.P European Pol
itical Cooperation for Security are requested to render the bearer assistance and cooperation.
‘Requested it says.’ He looked at him, tapping the card with his finger. ‘Sweden isn’t a member of the European Union. So, I have a choice, if I want to help you?’
‘Which is why we’re sitting in your car having this nice little chat.’ Conrad turned his head to look out at the empty hamlet. ‘How can anyone live here?’
Beyond the spatter of rain on the windshield it was bleak and gray, no sign of any activity, or anyone; the place deserted. Those people that were home keeping dry and warm behind closed doors; somewhere a rush of wind through unseen trees could be heard.
So what was he doing here?
‘I have information concerning the people who have Ulrika... representatives of a little group I am informed, who are, shall we say,’ he turned to give Almquist a pained expression, ‘not the sort of people you invite over to your mother’s birthday party.’
Almquist regarded him, this haggard man sitting next to him inside his car. ‘My mother is dead.’
‘They want the painting back.’
‘Who?’
He spread his hands, ‘Wish I knew.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘I’m an intelligence officer, Mr. Almquist. It’s my job to know, that’s all you need to know.’
Need to know. It sounded like a line from a Cold War thriller.
‘Who is they?’
‘How the fuck should I know?’ Conrad said quietly, looking out of the window. ‘I’m informed they are not very nice people and... that we should avoid them like the plague.’
Almquist felt all sense of control evaporate. He felt odd. He tried to think. ‘I knew there was something about you that didn’t seem right,’ he said, with a trace of bitterness.
His visitor smiled a wry smile that faded in the moment of a shallow breath, saying in a weary sigh, ‘I expect they will be in touch demanding an exchange.’
