A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  “Poul and Tryggve never spoke about sounds at all. They couldn’t anyway, with gaffer tape over their mouths. But Tryggve does recall a deep rumbling sound every now and then,” Carl said. “What’s more, he said Poul would have been good at coupling sounds and machinery. But the fact of the matter is it could have been anything at all.”

  Carl pictured Tryggve reading the message from the bottle for the second time, eyes moist with tears in the growing light of a Swedish dawn.

  “The message made an enormous impression on Tryggve. He said it was just like his brother not to bother with punctuation apart from a few dashes, and that Poul always wrote the way he spoke. He said that reading the letter was like hearing him say it out loud.”

  Carl released the image from his mind. Once Tryggve had had time to settle down again after the shock, they would have to get him over to Copenhagen.

  Yrsa frowned. “Did you ask Tryggve whether there was any wind while they were there in that boathouse? Did you or Assad check with the Met Office?”

  “You mean you want to know if it was windy in the middle of February? When isn’t it? Anyway, turbines are on the go even in a breeze.”

  “Nevertheless, did you check?”

  “Hand it on to Pasgård, Yrsa. He’s the guy we’ve got checking up on the wind turbines. I’ve got another job for you now.”

  She sat down on the edge of the desk. “I know what you’re going to say. You want me to talk to those support groups for people who used to be involved in religious sects, am I right?” She drew her handbag toward her and produced a packet of crisps. And even before Carl had formed his reply, she’d burst a hole in it and was busy devouring its contents.

  He couldn’t work her out.

  As soon as he got back to his office, he checked the weather service’s archive on the Internet and found that it only went back as far as 1997. He called them, explained his business, and put forward what he thought was a simple inquiry, expecting to receive an equally simple answer.

  “Can you tell me what the weather was like during the days following the sixteenth of February 1996?” he asked.

  The reply came after only a few seconds.

  “There was a fierce snowstorm on the eighteenth of February that brought the country practically to a standstill for three or four days. Even the border to Germany was closed. It was that bad,” said the woman at the other end.

  “Really? That would include Nordsjælland, then?”

  “The whole country, but worst in the south. In the north, roads were passable in widespread areas.”

  Why the hell hadn’t they asked about the weather before now?

  “So it would have been windy, then?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “What about wind turbines in weather like that?”

  The woman paused for a moment. “Are you asking whether the wind was too strong to have them running?”

  “Erm, I suppose so, yeah. Would they shut the turbines down in that kind of wind?”

  “I’d certainly think so, though I’m not an expert on that. But yes, they’d have been shut down during the period, otherwise they’d have been wrecked.”

  Carl tapped a cigarette from the packet with his free hand as he offered his thanks. What on earth had the children heard, then, if it hadn’t been wind turbines? Some of the noise would have been the storm itself, of course. They’d have been sitting there freezing inside the boathouse, unable to see out, so it was certainly possible that all they had heard was the wind. They might not even have known about the snow at all.

  Carl found Pasgård’s mobile number and called him.

  “Yeah,” came the reply. Unaccommodating even in a single syllable. Some people were like that.

  “It’s Carl Mørck. Did you check up on the weather during the days the children were being held?”

  “Not yet, but I’ll look into it.”

  “Save your energy. There was a snowstorm that lasted for three of the five days they were imprisoned.”

  “You don’t say.”

  A typical Pasgård comment.

  “Forget the wind turbines, Pasgård. It was blowing up a gale.”

  “What about the other two days?”

  “Tryggve told me he heard the rumbling sound all the time. Maybe more subdued the last three days. That would be explained by the storm drowning it out.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Just thought you should know.”

  Carl chuckled silently. Pasgård was probably kicking himself.

  “You’ll need to be looking for another source of the noise than wind turbines,” he continued. “Though still some kind of rumbling sound. What about that fish scale, anything turned up there?”

  “One step at a time. It’s with the Department of Biology for microscopy. Aquatic Biology Section.”

  “Microscopy?”

  “Yeah, or whatever it is they do. I’ve already found out it’s from a trout. The issue seems to be whether it’s a sea trout or a fjord trout.”

  “Aren’t they different altogether?”

  “Apparently not. It seems a fjord trout is just a sea trout that can’t be arsed to swim any farther, so it stays put.”

  Carl felt exasperated. Yrsa, Assad, Rose, and now Pasgård.

  “One last thing, Pasgård. Call Tryggve Holt and ask him if he can tell us what the weather was like while they were in the boathouse.”

  The moment he ended the call, the phone rang.

  “Antonsen,” said the voice. The tone alone gave Carl cause for concern. “Your man Assad and Samir Ghazi have been knocking the snot out of each other here. If we weren’t the police, we’d have had to call them. Propel yourself over here sharpish and take your little ruffian home with you.”

  27

  Whenever Isabel Jønsson needed to describe her upbringing, she always said she grew up in Tupperwareland. She was raised by two sensible parents in a yellow-brick bungalow with a Volvo in the driveway. Ordinary people with ordinary educations and opinions broadly in line with the rest of the conservative masses. It was a neatly presented childhood, germ-free and vacuum-packed. Elbows off the table and playing cards back in the bureau after bridge. Table manners and polite handshakes. Isabel completed her schooling. And her brother even insisted on doing his military service despite having been exempted.

  But she scattered these deeply entrenched standards to the four winds whenever she flung herself into the arms of a capable man. Or at times like this, slightly exceeding the specified top speed of her battered 2002 Ford Mondeo as she and Rachel raced along Route 13 and on to the E45.

  The GPS gave them an ETA of 5:30 P.M., but she would beat that easily.

  “I’ve got a suggestion,” she said to Rachel, who sat clutching her mobile phone. “Promise not to get upset?”

  “I’ll try,” came the quiet reply.

  “If we don’t find him or the children at this address in Ferslev, then I think we’re going to have to do as he says.”

  “I know, we already talked about that.”

  “Unless, that is, we want to buy ourselves more time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Isabel ignored a succession of extended middle fingers as she tore along in the fast lane without reducing her speed, flashing her headlights to clear the way ahead.

  “What I mean is…and this is where you mustn’t freak out, Rachel. What I mean is that we don’t actually know how safe the children are even if we give him the money. Do you understand me?”

  “I think they’ll be safe.” Rachel spoke each word with emphasis. “If we give him the money, he’ll let them go. We already know too much about him for him to run any more risks.”

  “Stop, Rachel. That’s exactly my point. If you pay the ransom and get the kids back, what would stop you from going to the police afterward? Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “I’m certain he’ll be out of the country as soon as he gets the money. He won’t care what we do afterward.”

>   “You think so? He’s not stupid, Rachel. We both know that. Fleeing the country is no guarantee. Most of them get caught anyway.”

  “But what’s the alternative?” Rachel shifted uneasily in her seat. “Please drive more slowly,” she pleaded. “If we get stopped by the police, they’ll take away your license.”

  “In that case, you’ll have to drive. I take it you’ve passed your test?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s OK then,” Isabel replied, sweeping past a pimped BMW full of young lads wearing precariously angled baseball caps.

  “We haven’t got time to hang about,” she went on. “And here’s my point: We don’t know what he’s going to do once he gets the money, and we’ve no way of knowing for sure what he’ll do if the ransom isn’t paid. That’s why we need to be one step ahead. We need to take the initiative here. Do you understand?”

  Rachel shook her head so vigorously that Isabel could see her reaction even though her eyes were fixed on the road.

  “No, I don’t understand at all.”

  Isabel moistened her lips. If this went wrong, it would be her fault. On the other hand, she had the feeling that what she was saying now was right and totally necessary.

  “If it turns out this bastard really does have a house at the address we’re headed for, it means we’re much closer to him than he ever thought possible, even in his worst nightmares. He’ll be racking his psychopathic brains to figure out where he went wrong. That will make him uncertain as hell about what you’re going to do next, OK? He’ll be vulnerable, and that’s exactly what we need.”

  They passed fifteen vehicles before Rachel answered.

  “Let’s talk about it later. I need to be in peace for a while.”

  Isabel glanced at her as they crossed the bridge over the Lillebælt strait. Not a sound escaped Rachel’s lips, but closer inspection revealed that they were in constant motion. Her eyes were closed, and her hands gripped her mobile phone, making her knuckles show white.

  “You really believe in God, don’t you?” said Isabel.

  A brief moment elapsed while Rachel concluded her prayer before opening her eyes.

  “Yes, I do. I believe in the Mother of God, and that She is here to look after unhappy women like me. That’s why I pray to Her, and She will hear me, I’m certain.”

  Isabel frowned but nodded and remained silent.

  Anything else would have been cruel.

  Ferslev lay in a patchwork of agricultural land close to the Isefjord. A pastoral idyll, which couldn’t be more different from the horror they were searching for, hidden away in a corner of the village.

  Isabel felt her heart rate increase as they approached their destination. Close up, they realized that the house could hardly be seen from the road, tucked away as it was behind trees. Rachel took hold of Isabel’s arm and asked her to pull in.

  Rachel’s face was white as a sheet, and she kept rubbing her cheeks as though trying to get her circulation going. Her brow was moist with perspiration, and her lips were pressed tightly together.

  “Pull over here, Isabel,” she said as they approached the windbreak. She staggered out of the car and fell on her knees at the side of the road. Clearly, she was in a bad way, whimpering with each outpouring of vomit until her stomach was finally empty.

  “Are you OK?” Isabel asked. A large Mercedes swept past.

  Silly question. The woman was throwing her guts up, but convention dictated that Isabel ask.

  “I feel better now,” Rachel said, settling back in the passenger seat and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “What do we do now?”

  “We drive up to the house. He thinks my brother in the police knows all about him. So if he’s there, he’ll let the children go as soon as he sees me. He won’t dare do anything else. All he’ll be able to think about is getting away.”

  “We should leave the car here so we’re not blocking his way out, making him feel trapped,” said Rachel. “Otherwise he might do something desperate.”

  “No, I think we should do just that. Block the track with the car. His only escape route then will be over the fields. If he’s able to get away in the car, there’s a risk he’ll take the children with him.”

  Rachel looked like she might be sick again. She swallowed twice in quick succession and calmed herself.

  “I know, Rachel. This is not something you’re used to. Me neither, for that matter. I don’t feel that great myself. But we’re here now, and we’re going to do it.”

  Rachel looked at her. Her eyes were filled with tears and yet devoid of emotion. “I’ve been through more in my life than you imagine,” she said, her voice surprisingly harsh. “I’m scared, but not for myself. This mustn’t go wrong.”

  Isabel parked the car diagonally across the track leading up to the house, and then they stood in the yard in the shadow of the trees and waited to see what would happen.

  Pigeons cooed on the roof, and a gentle breeze whispered through the long grass at the sides of the house. Apart from that, the only sign of life was the sound of their own breathing.

  The windows of the house were dark. Maybe they were just dirty, or maybe curtains had been drawn inside. They couldn’t tell. Rusty garden tools, worn down by use, leaned up against the wall, and the painted woodwork was flaking everywhere. The place seemed dead, uninhabited. It wasn’t what they had expected.

  “Come on,” Isabel said, and strode up to the main door. She knocked hard and fast. Then she stepped to one side and hammered her knuckles against the window of the porch. There was no response.

  “Holy Mother of God. If they’re inside, they might be trying to answer,” said Rachel, suddenly breaking out of her trance. And then she snatched up a hoe with a broken shaft that lay on the cobbles at the base of the wall and swung it resolutely against the pane.

  It was obvious to Isabel that being practical was an important part of Rachel’s everyday life. She flipped the hoe onto her shoulder and unlatched the window. Everything about her now showed that she was ready to put the tool to use against the kidnapper if he should turn out to be inside with her children. Ready to demonstrate to him that he would be wise to give a great deal of consideration indeed to his next move.

  Isabel kept close behind her as they moved through the house. Apart from four or five gas cylinders lined up in a row in the hall and a few pieces of furniture that seemed almost strategically positioned in front of the gaps in the curtains to make the place seem as if it might be inhabited, the ground floor contained absolutely nothing at all. A layer of dust on the floors and other horizontal surfaces, but otherwise there was nothing. No newspapers, no leaflets, no plates or utensils, bed linen, or empty packaging. Not even toilet paper.

  No one lived here, and no one was meant to.

  They found the stairs leading to the first floor and ascended with cautious, measured steps.

  Upstairs, the walls were clad with plasterboard, papered in all sorts of patterns and colors, a confusion of incompatible styles and a distinct lack of financial means. Wafer-thin partition walls divided the space into three rooms containing only one piece of furniture: a flaking green wardrobe with its door half open.

  The soft light of afternoon brightened the room as Isabel drew back the curtains. She looked in the wardrobe and gasped.

  He had been here. She recognized the clothes on the hangers from when he had been staying with her. The suede jacket, the gray Wranglers, and the shirts from Esprit and Morgan. Certainly not the kind of clothing one would expect to see in a place like this.

  Rachel gasped, and Isabel knew why. The smell of his aftershave alone was enough to make anyone feel sick.

  She took out one of the shirts and examined it quickly. “This hasn’t been washed, so now we’ve got his DNA,” she said, pointing to a hair on the collar, the wrong length and color to be her own.

  “Come on, we’ll take some of this with us,” she continued. “It’s not likely, but there might be something i
n one of the pockets.”

  They gathered a handful of items together and Isabel looked out at the barn across the yard. She hadn’t noticed the tire marks in the gravel before, but from up here they were clearly visible. Two compressed tracks in front of the barn, that looked very, very recent.

  She drew the curtains.

  They left the shards of glass where they were in the porch, closed the door behind them, and glanced around, finding nothing untoward in the garden, the field, or the trees. Then they turned their attention to the padlock that hung from the barn door.

  Isabel gestured toward the hoe that Rachel still carried over her shoulder, and Rachel nodded. It took less than five seconds to break the lock.

  Both of them gasped as they pulled open the door.

  In the barn in front of them stood the van. A light-blue Peugeot Partner.

  At Isabel’s side, Rachel quietly began to pray. “Oh, please don’t let my children be dead inside. Please, Mother of God. Don’t let them be dead inside, please…”

  Isabel was in no doubt. The predator had flown with his prey. She grasped the handle and opened the back doors. He hadn’t even gone to the trouble of locking the van, so certain was he that he was safe here.

  She put her hand on the hood. It was still warm. Very warm, in fact.

  And then she went back out into the yard and stared through the trees toward the road where Rachel had been sick. Either he had gone that way, or else down to the fjord. In any case, he couldn’t be far away.

  But they were too late.

  Rachel began to shake. The emotional turmoil she had struggled to keep inside on their long drive, the anguish that could not be expressed in words, the pain that had changed her expression and her posture, erupted now in one single scream that sent the pigeons aloft from the roof to seek refuge among the trees with a sudden beating of wings. And when finally the sound had been exhausted, snot ran from her nose, and the corners of her mouth were white with spit. She had realized that the only straw they had to clutch at had snapped.