Each period of his life had been given its own plastic folder marked with the appropriate months and years. One year, he had apparently studied law. Another, philosophy. For a couple of years, he had backpacked in Central America, jobbing around hotels, vineyards, slaughterhouses.
Not until he returned home did he begin to emerge as the person she thought she knew. Again, these meticulous folders. Brochures from the armed forces. Jotted notes on the army sergeant school, the military police, the commando forces. After that, all personal records and the accumulation of cherished relics terminated.
There were no names, no specifics of places or personal relationships. Only outlines of the years that had passed.
The last indicator of where he might have been headed was a small collection of printed matter in a variety of languages. Trainee programs in shipping in Belgium. The Foreign Legion recruitment pamphlet with luscious photos of southern France. Copies of application forms for business education programs.
There was no suggestion what path he eventually would choose, only of the directions in which he was thinking at this time of his life.
Somehow, it all seemed quite chaotic.
And as she returned these boxes to their places, fear welled inside her. She knew his work was secret; he had told her so. Until now, the accepted truth had been that he served in a good cause. Intelligence services, undercover police work, something like that. But why had she been so certain that this was the case? Had she any proof?
The only thing she knew was that he had never led a normal life. He was an outsider; he existed on the edge.
Now she had pored through the first thirty years of his life, and still she knew nothing.
At last, she came to the packing cases that had been stacked uppermost. She had rummaged in a few already but by no means all. Now, opening them systematically one by one and sifting through their contents, the shocking question came to her: Why, of all his boxes, had these been left so accessible?
The question was shocking because she knew the answer.
The reason they were stored on top was that her prying in them had been deemed unthinkable. It was as simple as that. What could be more indicative of the power he exerted over his wife? She had accepted without question that this was his domain, and that her presence here was prohibited.
She realized just how completely he controlled her.
She opened these boxes with trepidation and dread, her lips pressed tightly together, breathing deeply and shakily through her nose.
They were full of files. A4 binders in all colors, though their contents were as black as the night.
The first bore witness to a period in his life when he had apparently sought to atone for his ungodliness. More printed matter, this time from all sorts of religious movements, meticulously filed away in plastic pockets. Flyers that spoke of the afterlife and the eternal light of God, and how it could be attained with guarantee. The pamphlets of new religious movements and sects, all absolutely certain that they alone possessed the definitive solutions to the tribulations of man. Names such as Sathya Sai Baba, Scientology, the Mother Church, Jehovah’s Witnesses, God’s Children, and the Community of the Eternal appeared alongside the Unification Church, the Fourth Way, the Divine Light Mission, and a host of others of which she had little or no knowledge. All of them claiming to be the only true path to salvation, harmony, and benevolence. The only true path, as sure as fate itself.
She shook her head. What had he been looking for, this man who had striven so hard to finally rid himself of the darkness and dogma of his childhood? As far as she was aware, none among this diversity of religious tenders had found favor in her husband’s eyes.
No, the words “God” and “religion” did not easily find their way into their redbrick home in the mighty shadow of Roskilde Cathedral.
After she’d collected Benjamin from the day care and played with him for a time, she put him down in front of the television. As long as there were bright colors and the picture moved, he was happy.
She went upstairs and then wondered again if she ought to stop, put the remainder of the packing cases back without opening them, and leave her husband’s tortured life alone.
Twenty minutes later, she was grateful not to have followed this impulse. Grateful, but scared. In fact, such was the extent of her distress that she now found herself seriously considering whether to pack a bag with some essentials, take the housekeeping money from the tin, and get on the first available train.
She had known that the last of the boxes might contain things that concerned the present period of his life, the one involving their marriage. But she was aghast to discover herself to be a project in her own right, the subject of one of his files.
He had told her that he had fallen head over heels in love with her the first time they had spoken. She had felt the same way. Now she knew that to be a deception.
How could their first encounter in that café have occurred by chance when here in his binder were cuttings from the show-jumping competition at Bernstorffsparken where she had won a place on the podium for the very first time? Months before they ever met. Where had he found these cuttings? Wouldn’t he have shown them to her if he had got hold of them at some later date? Not only that, but he also had programs from competitions she had taken part in long before that one. He even had photos of her taken in places she knew they had never been together. He had been keeping her under surveillance right up to the time of their first meeting.
He had been waiting for the right moment at which to strike. She had been selected, and the fact was anything but flattering in view of how everything had panned out since.
The thought made her shudder.
She shuddered again when she opened a wooden filing box from the same packing case. At first glance, there was nothing special about it. Just a box containing lists of names and addresses unfamiliar to her. But on closer inspection of these papers she started to feel uneasy.
Why was this information so important to her husband? She was in the dark.
For each name on the list, a page of systematically ordered data was attached concerning the person in question as well as their family. First the religion they subscribed to. Then their status within their church community, followed by length of membership. More personal details followed, especially concerning children: names and ages and, most disturbingly, more intimate observations such as Willers Schou, 15 yrs. Not his mother’s favorite, but father extremely attached to him. Headstrong. Participation in church meetings erratic. Suffered colds most of the winter, twice confined to bed.
What did her husband want with such information? And how did the listed incomes of these families concern him? Was he some sort of a spy working for the social authorities? Had he been selected to infiltrate religious sects in Denmark to uncover incest, violence, and other atrocities?
The uncertainty of it preyed horribly on her mind.
Seemingly, his work took him all over the country, so he would hardly be in the employment of any local authority. Yet neither did it seem likely that he was in the service of any government agency. Would data like this be kept in packing cases at home?
What, then? Private investigator? Was he on the payroll of some wealthy individual, charged with digging up dirt on religious communities?
Maybe.
Her uncertainty was compounded when she came to a document at the bottom, on which, beneath the details concerning the family, were printed the words: 1.2 million. No irregularities.
She sat for a while with this piece of paper in her lap. As in the other cases, the information it contained concerned a family with a relatively large number of children and that was associated with a religious sect. This particular document was no different from the others apart from this last line and one additional detail: one of the children’s names had been ticked. A sixteen-year-old boy about whom it was stated that he was loved by one and all.
Why had his name been ticked? Because he was
loved?
She chewed on her lip and felt utterly lacking in ideas and initiative. All she knew was that everything inside her was screaming for her to get away. But was it the right thing to do?
Maybe this could give her leverage? Maybe it was how she could make sure Benjamin stayed with her. But as yet, she had no notion how.
She put the final two packing cases back inside the room. They contained nothing of consequence, only a few odd things of his they had found no use for.
Finally, she laid the coats carefully in place on top. The only sign of her indiscretion now was the indentation in the lid of one of the packing cases from when she had been looking for the phone charger, and even that was barely visible.
He won’t notice, she told herself.
And then the doorbell rang.
Kenneth stood in the dwindling dusk with a gleam in his eye. As they had agreed, he held in his hand a crumpled edition of the day’s paper, just as he had done the day before, ready to inquire as to whether their copy had arrived today. Prepared to deliver some spin about having found it in the road outside and how newspaper boys didn’t seem to care less these days. All just in case her face signaled alarm when she opened the door, or if, against all expectations, her husband should answer.
This time she had no idea what expression to wear.
“Come in, but only for a minute,” she said.
She glanced out across the road. It was getting dark now, and all was quiet.
“What’s up? Is he on his way home?” Kenneth asked.
“No, I don’t think so. He would have called.”
“What, then? Are you not feeling well?”
“No.” She chewed her lip again. What good would it do to involve him in all this? Wasn’t it best to leave him out of her life for a while so that he wouldn’t get mixed up in what was bound to come? Who would be able to prove any relationship between them if they broke off contact for a time?
She nodded to herself. “No, Kenneth, I’m not quite myself at the moment.”
He remained silent, scrutinizing her. The keen eyes beneath his blond eyebrows were skilled in detecting danger. They had registered immediately that something was amiss. They had observed that whatever it was might impact on the feelings he no longer wished to keep in check. His defense instinct was awakened.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Mia. Please tell me.”
She pulled him away from the door of the living room where Benjamin sat happily in front of the television as only small children can. It was on little Benjamin she needed to concentrate her resources.
She would have turned to face him and told him there was nothing to worry about, but that she would have to go away for a while.
But at that same moment the headlights of her husband’s Mercedes dissected the dusk in the driveway outside.
“You’ve got to go, Kenneth. Back door. Now!”
“Can’t we—”
“NOW, Kenneth!”
“OK, but my bike’s in the drive. What do you want me to do?”
Perspiration seeped from her armpits. Should she run away with him now? Just walk out through the door with Benjamin in her arms? No, she couldn’t do it. She was too scared.
“I’ll make something up. Just go! Through the kitchen, so Benjamin won’t see!”
And then he was out, milliseconds before the key rasped in the lock and the front door opened.
She was sitting on the floor in front of the television with her legs out to the side, her arms around her son in a tight embrace.
“There you are, Benjamin,” she said. “Daddy’s here. Now we’ll have lots of fun, won’t we?”
18
On a foggy Friday in March, the primary route E22 traversing Skåne has little to recommend it. If you took out the houses and the road signs, you could just as easily be on your way from Ringsted to Slagelse, Carl thought to himself. It was flat, overcultivated, and devoid of anything that might be considered even remotely interesting.
And yet he could name at least fifty of his colleagues from HQ whose eyes lit up like fairy lights at the mere mention of Sweden. In their view, all human needs, without exception, could be satisfied as long as the blue and yellow flag happened to be fluttering over the landscape. Carl gazed out through the windscreen and shook his head. Apparently, he was missing something. That special gene that cast a person into raptures of delight at the utterance of even the smallest word of Swedish.
Only when he reached Blekinge did the landscape raise itself into something more becoming. It was said that when the gods distributed rocks across the earth, their hands were unsteady with fatigue by the time they reached Blekinge. While certainly more pleasing to the eye, there was little else to look at but trees and rocks. It was all still Sweden.
Not exactly deck chairs and Camparis, he mused as he drove into Hallabro, passing the usual combination of kiosk, petrol station, and auto repair shop with deals on refinishing jobs before continuing along Gamla Kongavägen.
In the dwindling light of day, the house seemed nicely situated up above the town. A drystone wall marked the boundary of the garden, and the light shining from three windows indicated that the Holt family had not been unduly alarmed by Assad’s telephone call.
There was a knocker on the door. It was cracked, but he used it anyway. He waited, and heard no frenzied activity from within.
Then he realized it was Friday. Bollocks. Did Jehovah’s Witnesses observe the Sabbath? If Jews observed the Sabbath on the Friday, then presumably it was in the Bible, and Jehovah’s Witnesses followed the Bible to the letter.
He knocked again. Perhaps they weren’t allowed to answer the door? Did the Sabbath prohibit all movement? What was he supposed to do then? Kick the door in? Probably not a good idea in these parts. Most likely everyone kept a hunting rifle under the mattress.
He stood there for a moment and glanced around. The town had tucked itself in for the evening. It was all feet up now, and fuck it, we’ll do it tomorrow.
Carl wondered where the hell he was going to stay for the night in this far-flung outpost. And then suddenly a light went on behind the glass.
The door opened slightly, and the pale and solemn face of a boy aged about fifteen appeared in the crack and stared at him without a word.
“Hello, there,” said Carl. “Are your mum and dad in?”
The boy closed the door just as cautiously as he had opened it, and locked it behind him. The face had been calm and without emotion. Apparently, he knew what to do in a situation like this, and letting uninvited visitors in seemed not to be an option.
A few minutes passed, during which Carl stood staring at the door. Sometimes it helped to be persistent.
A couple of local residents walked past beneath the streetlights, their eyes fixed on him as if to say: Who are you? Faithful watchdogs, every small town had them.
Then eventually the face of a man appeared at the pane in the door. Persistence paid off again.
The face stared at Carl without expression, though clearly perplexed, as though they had been expecting someone else.
And then he opened the door.
“Yes?” he said, delivering the initiative.
Carl produced his badge. “Carl Mørck, Department Q, Copenhagen,” he said. “Are you Martin Holt?”
The man scrutinized Carl’s ID uneasily and then nodded.
“May I come in?”
“What’s it about?” the man replied softly and in perfect Danish.
“Perhaps we could talk about that inside?”
“I think not.” He retreated and was about to close the door again when Carl grasped the handle.
“Martin Holt, may I have a word with your son Poul?”
The man hesitated. “No,” he said after a moment. “He’s not here, so I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”
“Then where would I be able to find him, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t know.” He looked Carl directly in the eye. Rathe
r too directly, given the nature of his utterance.
“You mean to say you have no idea of your son’s whereabouts, no address?”
“That’s correct. And now I should like you to leave us in peace. We’re in the middle of Bible study.”
Carl produced a document. “This is the Civil Registration System’s list of persons occupying your home address in Græsted on the sixteenth of February, 1996, the day Poul gave up his studies at the College of Engineering. The names here are those of yourself and your wife, Laila, and your children Poul, Tryggve, Mikkeline, Ellen, and Henrik.” He glanced down, the page. “The civil registration figures here tell me that the children are now thirty-one, twenty-six, twenty-four, sixteen, and fifteen years old. Is that correct?”
Martin Holt nodded and shooed away the boy who stood peering inquisitively over his shoulder. Most likely it was Henrik.
Carl studied the boy furtively. He had the same kind of passive, empty look in his eyes that people get when the only thing over which they have control is when to go to the toilet.
Carl looked back at the man in front of him, who seemed to keep such a tight rein on his family. “We know that Tryggve and Poul were together that day at the college when Poul was there for the last time,” he said. “So if Poul has moved away from home, perhaps I might have a word with Tryggve instead? It won’t take a moment.”
“We no longer speak to Tryggve.” The words were delivered in a voice that was cold and without modulation, but the light of the outside lamp revealed the gray pallor that characterizes people whose burdens at work weigh heavy. Too much to do, too many decisions to make, and too few positive experiences. Gray skin and dull eyes. The last things Carl noticed before the man slammed the door in his face.
Seconds passed, and the outside lamp was switched off. Then the light in the hallway. But Carl knew the man was still there, waiting for him to go.
And then he heard Martin Holt begin to pray.
“Bridle our tongue, dear Lord, so that we may speak not the cruel word that is untrue, the true word that is not the whole truth, the whole truth that is without pity. For the sake of Jesus Christ, our Lord,” he pronounced in Swedish.
A Conspiracy of Faith Page 16
