A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  She looked at Rachel, deep in concentration behind the wheel. What on earth had she in mind?

  “Keep your distance, Rachel,” she yelled. “In a minute, we’ll have the police behind us with reinforcements. They’ll help us. We’ll catch him, you’ll see. They can set up a roadblock somewhere up ahead.”

  “Hello?” came the sound of a voice from the mobile in her hand. A stranger’s voice. A man’s.

  “Yes?” Isabel’s eyes were fixed on the rear lights of the car in front as they tore along the narrow road, but everything inside her focused now on this voice. Years of disappointment and defeat had taught her always to be on her guard, even in the most innocuous of situations. Where was Joshua?

  “Who are you?” she demanded harshly. “Are you in on this, with that bastard? Are you?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean. Were you the person talking just now to the man who owns this phone?”

  Isabel felt her brow turn to ice. “Yes, that was me.”

  She sensed Rachel shift uneasily in the driver’s seat. Her entire being was a question mark as she tried to keep a straight course on the winding ribbon of asphalt, the distance between them and the car in front increasing all the time.

  “I’m afraid he’s been taken ill,” said the voice on the phone.

  “What are you saying? Who are you?”

  “I was sitting here in the same compartment working when it happened. I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but I’m quite certain he’s dead.”

  “Hey!” Rachel yelled. “What’s going on? Who are you talking to, Isabel?”

  “Thank you,” was all Isabel could muster in reply to the man at the other end. And then she snapped the mobile shut.

  She looked at Rachel and then at the blur of trees as the car hurtled along. If a deer wandered out of the woods, or if they hit a patch of wet leaves at the wrong angle, they’d be done for. The slightest thing could mean disaster. How could she find the courage to tell Rachel what she had just heard? There was no telling how she might react. Her husband had died only seconds ago and she was tearing through this darkened landscape like a woman possessed.

  Isabel had often felt depressed about her life. Loneliness was an ever-present shadow. In the long evenings of winter she had often succumbed to the darkest thoughts. But now, at this moment, her mind was quite differently engaged. Now, with vengeance spurring her on, with the responsibility for the lives of two children resting in her hands, and their kidnapper, Satan personified, speeding along in the car in front of them, Isabel knew that she wanted to live. She knew that no matter how awful the world might appear, she could find her own place in it.

  The issue was whether Rachel could, too.

  And then Rachel turned her head toward her. “Tell me, Isabel. Tell me now. What’s happened?”

  “I think your husband’s had a heart attack, Rachel.” That was as gently as she could put it.

  But Rachel sensed that the sentence hung unresolved in the air. Isabel could tell.

  “Is he dead?” Rachel demanded to know. “Oh, God! He is, isn’t he? Tell me, Isabel!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me NOW! Or else…” Her eyes were wild. The car was already beginning to swerve.

  Isabel reached out toward Rachel’s arm to calm her down, but then she thought better of it. “Keep your eyes on the road, Rachel,” she said. “This is all about your children for the moment, remember?”

  Her words lodged inside Rachel’s soul, and she began to tremble. “NO, NO, NO!” she screamed. “NO, tell me it isn’t true. Oh, Mother of God, tell me it isn’t true!”

  She gripped the wheel, sobbing violently, saliva dribbling from her lips. For a moment, Isabel thought she was about to give up the chase and stop the car, but then she jerked her body upright again and put her foot down hard on the accelerator.

  Lindebjerg—Lynge read a sign that appeared at the side of the road, but Rachel did not slow for a second. The road curved through a cluster of cottages, and then everything was trees again.

  Now the bastard in front was clearly under pressure. His car snaked on a bend, and Rachel cried out for Mary, Mother of God, to forgive her for breaking the fifth commandment, for she was now about to kill.

  “This is insane! We’re doing almost two hundred kilometers an hour, Rachel. You’ll get us both killed!” Isabel screamed, thinking for a moment that she ought to pull the keys from the ignition.

  But the thought of the steering wheel locking flashed through her mind, and instead she braced herself for the worst, her knuckles showing white as she gripped the sides of her seat.

  The first time Rachel rammed the Mercedes in front, Isabel’s head lurched forward and then jerked back sickeningly. But the Mercedes held the road.

  “OK,” Rachel yelled. “So that makes no impression on you, Satan?” And then she rammed his rear end once more, this time with such force that the hood of the Ford crumpled. Isabel braced herself again but was nevertheless surprised by the violent snap of her body against the safety belt.

  “STOP THE CAR!” she commanded, feeling pain in her chest. But Rachel wasn’t listening. She was somewhere else altogether.

  In front of them, the Mercedes hit the verge, swerving out of control for a second before correcting again on a straight stretch where the road widened slightly and was dimly lit by yellow light from a large farm.

  And then it happened.

  At the same moment that Rachel was about to ram the back end of the Mercedes one more time, the driver veered suddenly to the left and jammed on his brakes amid a screeching of tires.

  They flew past, and found themselves in front.

  She sensed Rachel’s panic. Now they were going far too fast, the Mercedes no longer there to absorb their speed in the repeated collisions. The front wheels skidded to one side. Rachel straightened up, braking slightly, though not enough, and then came the sound of crunching metal from the side, causing Rachel instinctively to brake again.

  Isabel turned her head in shock toward the shattered side window and the rear door, now crumpled in against the backseat, and at the same instant the Mercedes came in from behind. The lower half of the monster’s face was in shadow, but his eyes were clearly visible. It was as though the light of sudden clarity passed over his face. As though everything at once fell into place.

  All that must never happen had now happened.

  And then he rammed them one last time, causing Rachel to lose control of the vehicle. The rest was pain and glimpses of a world careering by in the darkness that surrounded them.

  When everything was still again, Isabel found herself hanging upside down in her safety belt. At her side, Rachel lay lifeless, the steering wheel wedged beneath her bleeding body.

  Isabel tried to turn, but her muscles would not respond. Then she coughed and felt the blood well in her throat and nostrils.

  Odd, how nothing hurt, she thought briefly, and then her entire body exploded in pain. She wanted to scream but couldn’t. I’m dying, she thought, and coughed up blood.

  Outside, she saw a shadow approach. The footsteps on the shards of glass were measured and firm. They boded ill.

  She tried to focus, but the blood from her mouth and nose ran into her eyes. When she blinked, it felt like her eyelids were sandpaper.

  Only when he came close enough for her to hear what he said did she become aware of the heavy metal object in his hands.

  “Isabel,” he said. “You were the last person I’d expected to see today. Why did you have to get involved? Look what you’ve done.”

  He sat on his haunches and peered in through the side window. She presumed he was considering how best to deliver the final blow. She tried to turn her head to see him more clearly, but still she was unable to move.

  “Other people know who you are,” she groaned, feeling pain surge violently in her jaw.

  He smiled. “No one knows me.”

  He walked around the car and stared at Rache
l’s body from the other side. “No need to worry about her anymore. Which is good. She could have been a threat.”

  Then suddenly he straightened up. Isabel heard the sirens. A flash of blue passed across his legs, making him reel a couple of steps backward.

  And then her eyes closed.

  32

  The smell of burned rubber gradually grew stronger, forcing him to pull into a rest area just outside Roskilde. Once he had heaved the battered right wing away from the tire, he walked all the way around the car to inspect the extent of the damage. Obviously it had taken a beating, but he was still surprised at how little the results of the impacts showed.

  As soon as things died down, he would have to get the car fixed. All traces would have to be removed. He would find a workshop in Kiel or Ystad, wherever happened to be convenient at the time.

  He lit a cigarette and read the note he had found in the bag.

  This was usually that special moment he’d been looking forward to. Standing somewhere in the dark with traffic zooming past, knowing that once again he had done what he needed to do. The money in the bag, and then back to the boathouse to finish the job.

  But this time was different. He was still fazed by the experience of standing there on that little back road by the railway tracks, peering into the bag at the note and his own clothes.

  They had cheated him. The money wasn’t there. It was a bad situation.

  He pictured the wreck of the Ford Mondeo and felt satisfaction at the thought of that God-bothering bumpkin having got what she deserved. But Isabel’s involvement nagged at him.

  He was to blame for the way things had turned out, right from the start. If only he had followed his instinct, Isabel would have been dead after confronting him like that in Viborg.

  Who could have known there was a connection between Isabel and Rachel? From Frederiks to Isabel’s little row house in Viborg was a long way. What had he overlooked?

  He inhaled sharply through the cigarette and held the smoke inside his lungs for as long as he could. No ransom, and all because of stupid mistakes. Stupid mistakes, and coincidence that pointed in one direction: to Isabel. Right now, he had no idea if she was dead or alive. If he’d only had ten seconds more at that fucking car, he would have buried the jack in her skull.

  He would have been safe then.

  Now all he could do was hope nature took its course. The crash had been bad. The Mondeo had hit a tree and rolled over maybe a dozen times. The searing, scraping sound of mangling metal against the tarmac had hardly ceased before he got out of his Mercedes. How could she possibly survive that?

  He rubbed his aching neck. Bastard women. Why hadn’t they just done as they were told?

  He flicked his cigarette end into the thicket, opened the door of the passenger side, and sat down on the seat, pulling the bag onto his lap to examine the contents once more.

  The padlock and the clasp from the barn at Ferslev. Some of his clothes from the wardrobe, and this note. That was all.

  He read it over and over again. He was in no doubt that he would have to react promptly. Whoever had written it knew too much.

  But they had thought themselves safe, and that was their mistake. They had been certain the roles had been switched and that they had gained the upper hand. Now the women were most likely dead, but he would have to check and make sure.

  Then only the husband, Joshua, and perhaps Isabel’s brother in the police would be a threat.

  Perhaps. A fateful word.

  For a moment, he sat taking stock of the situation as the ribbon of lights from the motorway illuminated the rest area’s toilet block in waves.

  He had no fear that the police were after him. He was already several hundred meters from the scene by the time the patrol cars had arrived, and though he had encountered a couple more with sirens blaring before he reached the motorway, none would be especially interested in a lone Mercedes keeping to the speed limit.

  Of course, the police would find traces of a collision when they examined Isabel’s car, but the more exact circumstances of the crash could only remain a mystery. How would they ever find him?

  No, Rachel’s husband was his priority now. Joshua, and the money. And then he would have to be sure to erase any trace that might put anyone on to his tail. He would have to reboot his entire business from scratch.

  He gave a sigh. It had been a miserable year.

  His target had always been ten, and then he would pack it in. He was good at his work. The millions he had made in the first years had been invested wisely and provided a decent yield. But then came the financial crisis, and the bottom had fallen out of his portfolio.

  Even a kidnapper and murderer was subject to the vagaries of the market, and now to all intents and purposes he had been forced to start again.

  “Fuck,” he muttered to himself, as a new angle suddenly occurred to him.

  If his sister didn’t get her money as usual, he would have another problem on his hands. She could bring up matters from his childhood. Names that weren’t to be divulged.

  That, too.

  When he returned from the boys’ home, his mother had a new husband, selected for her from among the eligible widowers by the elders of the congregation. The man owned a chimney-sweeping firm and was father to two girls of Eva’s age. A pillar, as the new pastor had referred to him, with scant regard for truth.

  To begin with, his stepfather refrained from beating him, but once his mother reduced the dose of her sleeping pills and began to indulge him in the marital bed, the man’s conceit prevailed and his temper gradually found an outlet.

  “May the Lord lift up His countenance upon you and give you peace.” These were the words he used to conclude the thrashings he dealt out to his daughters. They were uttered frequently. If one of them had been deemed in any way to transgress the word of God, to whose interpretation their father believed himself to possess sole and exclusive rights, he would not hesitate to punish the fruits of his own loins. Generally, however, the girls did very little wrong, so his wrath was directed mainly at their stepbrother. He might forget the occasional amen, or perhaps smirk during grace. It was seldom more than that. Fortunately, awareness of his own physical limitations meant his mother’s husband never dared lay a finger on her strapping young son.

  Afterward came the pangs of guilty conscience, and this was almost invariably the worst of it. His own father had never bothered with anything like remorse, and so no one was ever in any doubt where they stood with him. But his stepfather would stroke the cheeks of his daughters and beg their forgiveness for his rage and for their evil stepbrother. And then he would retire to the study and put on the Robe of God, as his father had always referred to the vestment, and he would pray to the Lord that He might protect these vulnerable, innocent girls as if they were His own angels.

  As for Eva, he never deigned to say a word to her. Her glazed, blind eyes repulsed him, and she sensed this.

  None of the children understood him. Why should his own two girls be punished when it was the stepson he hated and the stepdaughter he held in contempt? And none of them could fathom why their mother did not intervene, or how God could manifest Himself in the hateful and conspicuously unjust deeds of this beastly man.

  For a time, Eva would speak up in her stepfather’s defense, but even her protests waned when the beatings meted out to her stepsisters became so violent that she almost believed she could feel the pain herself.

  Her brother bided his time, saving himself for the final encounter. It would come when they were least expecting it.

  Once, they had been four children, a husband, and a wife. Now only he and Eva were left.

  He pulled the plastic pocket containing all the information about the family out of the glove compartment and quickly found Joshua’s mobile number.

  Now he would ring him up and confront him with the realities. That his wife and their accomplice no longer posed a danger, and that his children would be next unless the rans
om was delivered to a new location within twenty-four hours. He would inform Joshua that he was a dead man if he had revealed anything about the kidnapping to anyone other than Isabel.

  It was easy for him to picture the ruddy face of this good-natured man, who would almost certainly break down and do exactly as he was instructed.

  He had seen it all before.

  He dialed the number and waited for what seemed like an eternity before it was answered.

  “Hello?” said a voice he immediately realized was unfamiliar.

  “Hello, is Joshua there?” he asked as a pair of headlights swept past him.

  “Who’s this?” the voice replied.

  “Is this Joshua’s mobile?” he asked.

  “No, you must have got a wrong number.”

  He glanced at the display. No, the number was right. What was going on?

  Then it struck him. The name!

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Joshua’s what we all call him, but his proper name’s Jens Krogh. I forget sometimes. May I speak to him?”

  He stared through the silence into space. The man at the other end said nothing. This wasn’t a good sign. Who the hell was he?

  “I see,” said the voice eventually. “And who am I speaking to?”

  “His brother-in-law,” he blurted out. “Is he there?”

  “No, I’m afraid he isn’t. You’re speaking to Sergeant Leif Sindal of the Roskilde Police. You’re his brother-in-law, you say. May I take your name?”

  The police? Had the idiot gone to the police? Was he completely insane?

  “Police? Has something happened to Joshua?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything until you give me a name.”

  Something was definitely wrong. What now?

  “It’s Søren Gormsen,” he said. That was his rule. Always give up an unusual name when dealing with the police. They’d believe it, because they knew they could check.