The Stolen Angel

by Sara Blaedel

  Wedersøe nodded and looked like he agreed.

  “But I will have to tell them I made inquiries among potential buyers to find out what it might be worth,” Carl Emil went on. “If I don’t say anything about it, Rebekka most certainly will. We can show them the inquiries my father received over the years. They need to know there have been several people on its track.”

  Again, the attorney agreed with him, smoothing a frustrated hand over his bald head. “Your sister’s at her wit’s end in there.”

  Carl Emil walked up to the imposing front door and stepped inside. He tossed his jacket onto a high-backed chair in the hall and followed Miklos into the living area.

  * * *

  His sister was sitting on a sofa with her legs drawn up underneath her. Her face was puffy with tears, her hair tangled and loose over her shoulders. She looked like she had slept in the clothes she was wearing: black trousers and a crumpled blouse.

  She looked so vulnerable, shrouded by fear and grief.

  He went over and bent down in front of her, drawing her toward him. She allowed him to put both arms around her and rock her gently without resisting.

  “They want the Angel of Death tonight,” she breathed into his ear.

  She was no longer crying; her breathing was calm and almost unnoticeable. Only when his back began to ache did he release her and straighten up again, stepping across the room to shake hands with Nymand, who introduced him to a woman officer from the negotiation unit. The others were in the adjoining rooms, and he gave them a brief nod of acknowledgment before pulling out a chair.

  “Do you have anything to go on?” he asked, looking at the chief superintendent.

  “We’ve got this,” Nymand replied, indicating the Nokia. “We’re trying to trace it, but it wouldn’t surprise me if we hit a dead end there. It’ll be pay-as-you-go, and the phones themselves are most likely stolen or from abroad.”

  Abroad, yes. He had bought them in Nice not long ago on that weekend trip with his friends. He had given them one each and instructed them to leave their own in the valuables box when they checked in at the hotel, effectively banning all contact with work, wives, and girlfriends for the duration. The eight little Nokias meant they could keep in touch with each other all weekend, wherever they happened to wander off, while the surrounding world was kept at bay. He had one of the remaining seven in his pocket now.

  “We’re leaving the phone with Louise Rick. She’ll guide your sister next time there’s any contact. That way, I can assure you we’re doing everything right in order to return the little girl safely home again.”

  “My sister informed you about the demand?”

  Nymand nodded, the dark-haired woman likewise.

  “None of us knows where the icon is hidden,” Carl Emil continued. “So I’m afraid to say I don’t know how that demand can be satisfied.”

  “No,” Nymand conceded. “It does seem like an impasse, and we’re not likely to get much further until we know where it is.”

  “Are you even looking for it?’ Carl Emil replied. “Are you actually doing anything to help us?”

  He tried to control his voice. The hours were ticking away, and he had imagined the police would be a lot more active in trying to track the icon down.

  “We can’t just sit here and wait,” his sister said. “We must try and find it.”

  “I’m afraid leaving the house won’t help much,” Nymand cut in, rising to his feet as he spoke. “The important thing at the moment is for the kidnappers to get in touch. And your father is already in the process of releasing the icon to us.”

  “Our father?” Carl Emil burst out in astonishment, while his sister’s jaw simply dropped.

  Nymand nodded and buried his hands in his pockets.

  Wedersøe, who until now had lingered in the background, stepped forward. “I think that might require an explanation,” he said in disbelief.

  “The explanation is that we’re in touch with him and that he’s promised to bring us the Angel of Death.”

  “I don’t understand,” Carl Emil stuttered.

  “We don’t know much ourselves yet,” Nymand acknowledged, “other than that your father seems to have been staying at your brother’s vacation home in Hawaii.”

  “You mean Frederik knew?” Rebekka asked.

  “If he did, he’s not letting on,” the chief superintendent replied, shaking his head.

  “How long have you had this information?” Wedersøe demanded, glaring angrily at Nymand.

  “Not long. I received a phone call from him an hour ago. I was going to tell you, of course,” he said, adding that their father was now on his way home to Denmark but they still didn’t know when he might be able to board a flight.

  “So where is he now?” Carl Emil inquired, suddenly feeling a need for air. He thought of Isabella back home in the guest room of his apartment. The movie was probably finished now and most likely she was watching another. He felt the pressure mount inside him as he thought of the headstone outside his door. He needed to get hold of the icon and release the girl. If his father really was coming home, he would be unable to go through with the plan; he wouldn’t have the backbone. He realized immediately he was going to have to get away.

  “We hope to have him back in the country within the next two days. In the meantime it’ll be the job of the negotiating unit to keep the kidnapper hanging on. However, once your father has secured the icon I feel confident the child will soon be home again.”

  Two days.

  Carl Emil’s throat felt dry as he stood outside on the gravel a few moments later, collecting himself before driving home and making his niece some lunch.

  26

  We need proof of life before promising them anything,” said Louise, her eyes fixed firmly on Rebekka Sachs-Smith.

  The woman’s dark hair was now gathered loosely at the neck, and she seemed almost transparent.

  “You must promise me my daughter’s coming home again,” she said as if oblivious to Louise’s words. “I keep seeing her in my mind. Such a sweet girl, and I was never there for her. I don’t even know the name of her dancing teacher.”

  Rebekka buried her face in her hands and sat there motionless.

  “We have to prepare and be ready,” Louise explained calmly. “We don’t know if they’ll decide to phone next time, and if indeed they do phone rather than sending a text, you’re the one who has to answer.”

  “But I can’t,” Rebekka spluttered despairingly in a sudden burst of tears.

  “I’ll be listening in and I’ll help you.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re to say that you’re doing your very best to get them the icon, but they have to understand it’ll take time. Time is very important, we need to win ourselves time. But you must tell them that you’ve accepted their demand.”

  Rebekka looked up at her. “But we don’t know where it is!” she sobbed.

  “No,” said Louise, shaking her head. “But we will soon. Your father’s in touch with the police. For the moment, you and I need to concentrate on maintaining a productive dialogue with the people who have your daughter. Don’t promise them you can get the icon, just keep telling them you’re doing your utmost to secure it and that you need some more time. And again: Don’t promise them anything at all before they can provide us with some proof of life, as we call it. You must ask them for proof that they have your daughter and that she’s alive.”

  “How?” Rebekka replied, hardly voicing the word, her face glazed with tears.

  “Ask them a question they can only answer if Isabella tells them what to say.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a pet name; has she got a pet name?” Louise prompted. “Or maybe something that happened at dancing school? Something special she would remember if someone asked.”

  Rebekka shook her head, but then her face brightened slightly as if suddenly she had an idea.

  “I’ll ask about Greta Ga
rbo,” she decided, explaining that it was the name of an old doll to which her daughter was very attached.

  “Good,” said Louise, getting to her feet again to inform Thiesen, but then at that same moment her phone rang. Seeing it was Jonas, she excused herself and went into the hall.

  “Hi,” she said, fleetingly worried by him calling her during school hours, only then realizing it wasn’t Jonas at all.

  “Sorry to bother you,” his class teacher said, causing Louise to instantly regret having answered. This was not the time for another dressing-down.

  “Jonas has just been taken to the emergency room,” his teacher explained.

  “The emergency room?” Louise exclaimed in fright. “What’s happened?”

  “It seems he got himself into a fight. Now he’s got himself a split eyebrow.”

  “Jonas? In a fight?” Louise repeated incredulously. “If Jonas has been injured it’s because someone’s been picking on him. He’s not the fighting type.”

  It was the last thing in the world she could imagine.

  “I’m afraid it was Jonas who started it,” the teacher stated matter-of-factly.

  “Who’s with him at the hospital?”

  “His math teacher drove him there, but obviously he can’t stay with him for long. I’m afraid you’ll have to collect him yourself.”

  “Yes, I will,” Louise replied. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Can I just suggest that you need to take this rather seriously?” the teacher went on. “If it carries on like this, the class won’t be able to have him much longer.”

  “Now, you listen to me,” Louise put in immediately. “If there’s any failure here, that failure is at your end entirely, in the classroom. And in that case you should be doing everything in your power to make sure the class addresses whatever it is that obviously isn’t working. Jonas is a conscientious student, he does whatever’s asked of him. He’s not violent in any way whatsoever, as you well know. I’m not saying it’s your fault if the children don’t get along, but it certainly is your responsibility to be aware of any problems that might have arisen and to get to the root. If Jonas is behaving the way you say he is, then clearly something in the class isn’t right.”

  Now it was the teacher’s turn to interject.

  “The only thing that isn’t right is that Jonas Holm doesn’t know how to behave.”

  Louise hung up promptly, trembling with rage.

  She couldn’t even call Jonas if his phone was still at school. Instead she rang Melvin, who immediately offered to pick him up from the emergency room. With a voice full of concern he asked about what had happened, how the boy possibly could have gotten himself into a fight, but Louise was unable to tell him much apart from the fact that apparently he was having problems at school. She had no idea why, because he wouldn’t talk to her about it.

  Melvin promised he would have a word with him and ask him about it, but Louise still felt dreadful not being able to collect him herself and be there for him when he needed her. His face must be a mess.

  * * *

  Louise felt the need for some fresh air. She dropped the Nokia into her pocket in case it rang. On the gravel outside she gulped the cold air into her lungs and had just sat down on the step when her own phone rang.

  Her first thought was that it was Jonas’s class teacher again, so she was surprised to hear Ragner Rønholt’s voice at the other end. The head of the Search Department had never called her private number before, and she was rather taken aback to discover he knew it at all.

  “Not interrupting, I hope?” he asked, without waiting for an answer. “We’ve got another young woman who seems to have disappeared from her hotel in Marbella. No one’s heard from her since yesterday afternoon and the hotel has confirmed the bed and towels haven’t been touched since housekeeping was there yesterday morning.”

  Louise pricked up her ears.

  “She hasn’t been gone long, especially if she’s there on her own,” she replied, surprised that he was even considering they had a case.

  “True,” he conceded. “But I think we can safely assume this one wouldn’t be planning to go off of her own accord. She’s a film director, you see, and her new movie is having its premiere next week. Immediately before she went missing she was in touch with her film company and her partner, and both are saying she was looking forward to coming home.”

  “Who reported her missing?”

  “The film company’s PR section contacted her partner. She was supposed to be doing a live phone interview with DR, for the TV news at six thirty, but when the journalist called her there was no answer. Obviously, DR called the press secretary right away and since then they’ve been trying without any luck to get hold of her. The partner called in last night and reported her missing.”

  “A film director, you say. Anyone I’d know?” Louise asked.

  “It’s Naja Holten.”

  Louise had begun to feel cold. She got to her feet, an image of the red-haired director clear in her mind.

  “Who spoke to her last?” she asked, stepping inside.

  “Her partner, boyfriend it seems, was in touch with her yesterday afternoon. Said she’d booked a table in the hotel restaurant, only didn’t show up. No one’s seen her since,” Rønholt replied, pausing for a second before going on. “I called the Spanish police this morning, and the guy on the Jeanette Milling case promised to have a look and see if there were any more Scandinavian women missing in the area. I told him that if there turned out to be a connection between Jeanette and Naja Holten, there might be others.”

  “Has he called back yet?”

  Louise heard Rønholt take a sharp breath. “He rang an hour ago. It seems that in the last two years four Scandinavian women have gone missing down there, all aged about thirty and all of them reported missing while vacationing on the coast.”

  “Four?” Louise exclaimed, casting a glance into the living room where Rebekka seemed to be asleep on the sofa again. “And no one’s tried to link them in any way before this?” she asked, withdrawing again and stepping into the office where she sat down behind the big desk.

  “It seems not,” Rønholt replied. “Their cases have only gone out to police in their respective countries. Two were from Sweden, one from Norway, and then Jeanette from Denmark. No one seems to have posited any links among them. I’ve been trying to get hold of Grete Milling. She might be able to tell us if there were any connections among the four women.”

  “Try calling my downstairs neighbor,” Louise suggested. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he knew where she was. They’ve been getting to know each other, I think.”

  She gave him Melvin’s number.

  Louise got up and was about to end the call, but Rønholt had one more question.

  “You’ve seen Jeanette’s flat,” he said. “Was there anything there that gave you any reason at all to think she might be part of some network, or was somehow in contact with women in the other Scandinavian countries? A reading group, perhaps, or some other such thing. Anything at all.”

  “I can’t say there was, no. Not that I can think of. But then I wasn’t really looking.”

  “No, of course not,” Rønholt replied, swift to understand. “It would just be such an unpleasant development if it turned out they were connected in some way.”

  “You’re telling me,” Louise acknowledged. “Do you know anything about how the others disappeared, what circumstances were involved?”

  “Only that they all traveled alone and vanished without a trace from their hotels.”

  “I don’t like this at all,” said Louise. “In fact I rather hope it’s just coincidence, because if these cases really are connected it sounds to me like it could be very nasty indeed.”

  “I agree,” said Rønholt and promised to keep her posted.

  27

  Camilla drove down the long, narrow approach, which was lined on both sides by sturdy trees. Beyond them, the bare winter fields ext
ended toward the surrounding woodland. The big white manor house loomed up in front of her. Reaching the courtyard with its whitewashed pillars marking the entrance, she took her foot off the accelerator of her Fiat Punto and turned in.

  She knew the Sachs-Smith property only from pictures in the newspapers, and as she pulled up in front of the main house her first thoughts were of an English country mansion. It was a splendid building with windows as tall as patio doors and a front entrance with wide stone steps that fanned out from a main door flanked by boxwood in big, elegant stone planters.

  She parked and got out. The courtyard in front of the main house featured a circular lawn with a little fountain in the middle, and the whole area between the two detached wings extending at right angles from the main house was covered with the finest gravel.

  The small stones crunched under her feet as she approached the front door. The place seemed empty without in any way appearing abandoned. Walther had told her the estate manager lived in one of the adjacent houses and looked after the family’s farming interests. Camilla glanced around. Seeing no other houses from the main steps, she guessed he must have meant one that lay farther away, toward the woods.

  She had already found the scrap of newspaper on which she had noted down the code when suddenly she remembered the key. Walther had explained to her that there was an extra key in the fountain. She would have to feel around for it in the cold, murky-looking water.

  Stand with your back to the house, he’d said, on an axis going from the front door to the middle of the fountain, and you’ll find it.

  Camilla went over and rolled up her sleeves, almost immediately finding a small, hard plastic box with the key inside. She returned to the front door, pressed in the code, and turned the key. Nothing happened. A red lamp flashed in the alarm cabinet. She checked her scrap of paper again and pressed in the six-digit code once more, but the red lamp kept flashing. She stepped back, her thoughts milling. After a second she got out her cell phone and called Walther’s number, hoping to catch him before he got on a plane.