“And that’s why they killed her.”
“Yeah. The African girls believe in voodoo. Only this one didn’t. She was a threat to the system. They had to get rid of her.”
“So they used the bracelet to remind the other girls of the repercussions of going against their masters or the voodoo.”
“That’s right. Someone had woven feathers and hair and all sorts of crap into the bracelet. None of the other African girls was in any doubt as to what it meant.”
Carl stroked his chin. Hardy was definitely on to something.
Jacobsen stood with his back to Carl, looking out across the street. He did this often when he needed to focus. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying Hardy thinks the bodies in the fires were debt collectors entrusted with the collection of payments from the three firms involved, and that they hadn’t been doing their jobs properly. The payments weren’t forthcoming, and for that reason they were bumped off?”
“Right. The syndicate makes an example of them for everyone else on the payroll. And the firms use the insurance payout after the fires to settle their debts. Two birds with one stone.”
“If the insurance money went to the Serbs, presumably one or more of the firms hit would then be lacking funds with which to reestablish their businesses,” Jacobsen mused.
“Yeah.”
The homicide chief nodded. Simple explanations often yielded simple solutions. These were vicious crimes indeed, but the Eastern European gangs and those from the Balkans were hardly known for their compassion.
“Do you know what, Carl? I think we’ll go with that.” He nodded. “I’ll get on to Interpol straightaway. They can give us a hand getting some answers out of these Serbs. Do thank Hardy for me, won’t you? How’s he doing, anyway? Has he settled in all right at your place?”
Carl shook his head deliberately. Settled in would be stretching things somewhat.
“Oh, by the way. A tip-off for you.” Marcus Jacobsen stopped him in his tracks in the doorway. “Health and Safety will be looking in on you sometime during the day.”
“Yeah? How do you know? I thought that sort of thing was meant to be a surprise.”
The homicide chief smiled. “We’re not the police for nothing, you know. We know things.”
“Yrsa, you’re on the third floor today, OK?” Carl said.
But Yrsa wasn’t listening. “Rose said to thank you for the note you left yesterday,” she said.
“OK. What’s her answer, then? Will she be back with us soon?”
“She didn’t say.”
Which was answer enough in itself.
He was stuck with Yrsa.
“Where’s Assad?” he asked.
“In his office making phone calls to former sect members. I’m doing the support groups.”
“Are there many?”
“Not really, no. I’ll have to start ringing up ordinary ex-members soon, like Assad’s doing.”
“Good idea. Where are you finding them?”
“Old newspaper articles. There’s plenty to be getting on with.”
“When you go upstairs, take Assad with you. Health and Safety will be around in a while.”
“Who?”
“Health and Safety. About the asbestos.”
Obviously, it rang no bells. Yrsa stared vacantly into space.
“Hello, anyone there?” He snapped his fingers. “Wakey, wakey!”
“Hello, yourself. Let me say this like it is to your face, Carl. I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. Don’t you think you might be mixing me up with Rose?”
Had he really got her confused with her sister?
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t even tell them apart anymore.
Tryggve Holt rang just as Carl was wondering if he should put a chair out ready in the middle of the room so he could clobber the fly next time it decided to settle in its favorite spot on the ceiling.
“Were you satisfied with the drawing?” Tryggve asked.
“Yes, were you?”
Tryggve said he was. “I’m calling you because there’s a Danish policeman, Pasgård, who keeps ringing me up all the time. I’ve already told him everything I know. Can’t you get him off my back? He’s a real pain.”
My pleasure, Carl thought to himself.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions first, Tryggve?” he said. “Then I’ll make sure he leaves you alone, OK?”
Tryggve didn’t sound entirely enthusiastic, but he wasn’t protesting, either.
“We’re having doubts about the wind turbines. Can you describe that sound for us again, in more detail perhaps?”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“How deep was it?”
“I couldn’t say. I don’t know how to describe it.”
Carl hummed a tone. “Was it that deep?”
“Yeah, thereabouts, I’d say.”
“Not very deep at all, then?”
“If you say so. I would have called it deep.”
“Did it sound metallic in any way?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was it a soft tone, or was there more of an edge to it?”
“I can’t remember. More of an edge, maybe.”
“Like an engine?”
“Maybe. But all the time, for days on end.”
“And it didn’t go away in the storm?”
“A little bit, perhaps, not much. Anyway, I’ve been through all this with Pasgård. Most of it, at least. Can’t you just ask him? I can hardly bear to think about it anymore.”
Carl thought of suggesting therapy. “I understand, Tryggve.”
“Anyway, there’s another reason I’m calling. My dad’s in Denmark today.”
“Really?” Carl grabbed his notepad. “Where?”
“He’s at a meeting of Jehovah’s Witnesses, at their headquarters in Holbæk. Something about him wanting to be stationed somewhere else. I think maybe you put the wind up him. He doesn’t want all this brought up again.”
Like father, like son, Carl thought to himself. “I see. And what can the Jehovah’s Witnesses in Denmark do about that?” he asked.
“They could send him to Greenland or the Faroe Islands, for a start.”
Carl frowned. “How do you know this, Tryggve? Are you and your father on speaking terms again?”
“No, my younger brother, Henrik, told me. And you’re not to tell anyone, otherwise he’ll be in trouble.”
After they had hung up, Carl sat for a moment and gazed at the clock. In an hour and twenty minutes Mona would be with him in the company of her super shrink, but why was she putting him through it? Maybe she thought he was going to leap to his feet all of a sudden like the first lamb of spring and declare: Hallelujah, I’m not traumatized anymore about my mate getting shot before my eyes while I did fuck all about it! Was that it?
He shook his head. If it wasn’t for Mona, he would make short shrift of that quack of hers.
There was a gentle knock on the door. It was Laursen, with a little plastic bag in his hand.
“Cedar,” he said, chucking the bag containing the splinter onto Carl’s desk. “You’re looking for a boathouse made of cedarwood. How many of them do you think were put up in Nordsjælland before the kidnapping? Not many, I can tell you. It was all pressure-treated timber back then. Before Silvan and all the other DIY chains convinced Mr. and Mrs. Denmark it wasn’t good enough anymore.”
Carl stared at the scrap in the bag. Cedarwood!
“Who says the boathouse is made of the same material as the splinter Poul Holt found to write with?” he asked.
“No one. But the possibility exists. If I were you, I’d ask around the timber merchants in the area.”
“Excellent work, Tomas. But there’s no telling how old that boathouse might be. The law only requires firms to keep copies of their accounts for five years in this country. No timber merchant or DIY store is going to be able to tell us anything about any amount of cedarwood they sold even ten years ago, not to
mention twenty. That only works in films. Reality’s a different thing altogether.”
“Should have saved myself the bother, then.” Laursen smiled. Shrewd as he was, he could doubtless already see the thoughts now bouncing around inside his former colleague’s head. How to make use of the information? Where did it put them now?
“By the way, you might like to know Department A’s in a frenzy upstairs,” Laursen added.
“What for?”
“They’ve pulled in the owner of one of those firms that got hit by arson recently. Seems the bloke’s cracked. He’s in an interview room shitting himself. He thinks that lot he borrowed money from are going to bump him off.”
Carl pondered the information. “I don’t blame him. He’s got every reason.”
“Anyway, Carl. You won’t be hearing from me for the next couple of days. I’m off on a course.”
“You don’t say. Cafeteria cuisine, is it?” He laughed, perhaps rather too heartily.
“As a matter of fact, yes. How did you guess?”
Now he caught the look in Laursen’s eyes. It was a look he had seen before. Out there with the dead bodies, white SOC suits all over the place.
That pained look Laursen ought to have put behind him by now was back again.
“What’s up, Tomas? Did they kick you out or something?”
Laursen nodded almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, but not the way you think. The cafeteria isn’t paying its way. We’ve got eight hundred people working in this building and none of them are eating with us. So now they’re packing it in.”
Carl frowned. He had never been one of the privileged few who on account of their loyalty to the cafeteria had always been rewarded with an extra slice of lemon to go with their fish. But still, things were going totally down the plughole if they were closing the nosh house, the pig trough, the luncheonette, the greasy spoon, the staff restaurant, or whatever the hell else they chose to call the joint with the sloping walls its diners were always banging their heads against.
“You mean, they’re actually closing down?” he said incredulously.
“Yeah. But the commissioner says there has to be a cafeteria, so now they’re putting it out to tender. They’ve got us buttering bread until some twat or other kicks us out on to the dole queue in the name of the free market or else takes us on to chop lettuce all day.”
“So you’re sodding off now, before it happens?”
Laursen managed a crumpled smile that briefly lit up his weathered face. “Sodding off? You must be joking. I put in for this course so I’ll be eligible to take over the place. That’ll show the bastards.”
They walked part of the way up the stairs together, before Carl found Yrsa on the third floor engaged in animated chat with Lis about who was the hotter, George Clooney or Johnny Depp. Whoever the fuck they were.
“Hard at work, then?” he commented tersely and caught sight of Pasgård darting from the coffee machine into his office.
“Thanks for your work, Pasgård,” he said, catching up with him. “You’re hereby off the case.”
Pasgård gave him an uncertain look. He always assumed everyone else was just as full of shit as he was himself.
“Just one small job, Pasgård, then you and Jørgen can get back to knocking on doors in Sundby. Would you be good enough to make sure Poul Holt’s father is brought to HQ for questioning? It seems Martin Holt is at this moment to be found at the national headquarters of Jehovah’s Witnesses at Stenhusvej 28 in Holbæk, just in case you didn’t know.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’d suit me to interview him in exactly two hours’ time. He’ll probably kick up a fuss, but this is a murder investigation and he’s a Crown witness.”
Carl turned on his heel. He could almost hear the howls of protest from the Holbæk Police. Marching into the Jehovah’s Witnesses’ most hallowed halls! Christ on a bike! But Martin Holt would come along of his own accord. Of the two evils, the greater would be having to admit to lying to his fellows in the community about his son being ostracized.
It was one thing to have lied to people outside the sect, quite another to have done so to the initiated.
He found Assad at his desk in the corridor outside Jacobsen’s office. A computer of the kind that had been thrown into storage five years before whirred loudly. On the other hand, they had given him a relatively new mobile so he could retain contact with the outside world. No expense spared.
“Any luck, Assad?”
He raised his hand, a hold-on-a-second gesture while he finished the sentence he was in the middle of writing, committing his thoughts to paper before they disappeared. Carl was the same.
“It’s odd, Carl. When I speak to people who have run away from a sect, they think I am trying to make them join a new one. Do you think it has to do with my accent?”
“What accent’s that, Assad?”
Assad glanced up with a gleam in his eye and a grin on his face. “Ahh, you are making fun with me now. I understand, Carl.” He waggled an admonishing index finger in the air. “But my piss cannot so easily be taken out of me.”
“Yeah, right, Assad. So anyway, you mean there’s nothing for us to go on?” Carl continued. It certainly wouldn’t be Assad’s fault if that were the case. “But Assad, maybe there just is nothing to go on. We can’t be certain the kidnapper ever committed any crime other than this one. Do you get what I’m saying?”
Assad smiled. “There you take my piss again, Carl. Of course the kidnapper did this more than one time. I see in your eyes that you know this.”
He had to be right. A million kroner was a lot of money, but it wasn’t that much. Certainly not if kidnapping was your chosen profession.
Their man must have done it more than once. What reasons were there for assuming he hadn’t?
“Keep at it, Assad. There’s nothing else to do for the time being, anyway.”
When he got back to the front desk, where Lis and Yrsa were still immersed in shockingly sexist drivel about what a proper man should look like, he tapped discreetly on the counter with his knuckles.
“I understand Assad’s running the show on his own as regards the former sect members, so I’ve got something else for you to do, Yrsa. And if it’s too much, Lis will help you out, won’t you, Lis?”
“No, you won’t, Lis,” came the sound of Ms. Sørensen’s caustic voice from the corner. “Detective Inspector Mørck here belongs to a different department. It’s not in your job description to run errands for him.”
“Well, I’d say that depends,” said Lis, sending him one of those looks her husband seemed to have got her to specialize in during their libidinous road trip across the States. It was a look he wished Mona could have seen. Then maybe she would start fighting a bit harder to keep him on the hook.
In self-defense, he focused his gaze on Yrsa’s red lips.
“Yrsa, I want you to check and see if you can find that boathouse on an aerial photo. Get hold of everything they’ve got in the property registration archives in Frederikssund, Halsnæs, Roskilde, and Lejre municipalities. You’ll most likely find them via the official websites for each local authority, otherwise ask them to send us what they’ve got by e-mail. High-definition aerial photos showing the entire shoreline all the way around Hornsherred. And while you’re at it, ask them to send us some maps detailing the position of every wind turbine in the area.”
“I thought we agreed they were shut down during the storm?”
“We did, but it needs to be checked anyway.”
“A poxy little job like that won’t take her long,” said Lis. “What have you got for me?” She fluttered her eyes directly at his crotch. What the fuck was he supposed to say to that in public? His double entendres were falling over each other in the rush.
“Erm. Maybe you could get on to the technical departments of those local authorities and ask if they gave planning permission for boathouses along the shoreline in the period prior to 1996, and if so, where.”
She swayed h
er hips. “Is that all? I was hoping for a bit more.” And then she turned her magnificently attractive, denim-clad backside toward him and strode off toward her phone.
Absolutely priceless.
34
The Helmand region had been Kenneth’s personal hell, the desert dust his nightmare. One tour of Iraq, two of Afghanistan. It was more than enough.
His mates sent him e-mails every day. A lot of words about comradeship and great times together, but nothing about what was actually going on. Everyone just wanted to stay alive. That was all that mattered.
And for that reason he was done with it. He was clear about that. A pile of debris on a roadside. The wrong place in the dark. The wrong place in the daytime. The incendiaries were everywhere. An eye put to a telescopic sight. Luck wasn’t the kind of companion on whom one could rely.
So here he was in his little house in Roskilde, trying to blunt his senses and forget. Trying to get on with his life.
He had killed a person and had never told anyone. It had happened very quickly, in a brief exchange of fire. Not even his comrades had noticed. A corpse, slightly apart from the others. His corpse. A direct hit in the windpipe. No more than a boy, the terrifying whiskers of the Taliban warrior little more than fluff on his chin.
He had told no one, not even Mia.
It wasn’t the kind of thing to drop into a conversation when you were breathlessly in love.
The first time he saw Mia, he knew he would be hers unconditionally.
She had looked deeply into his eyes when he took her hand. Already then, it had happened. Total surrender. Pent-up longing and hope, suddenly liberated. And they had listened to each other with senses agape, knowing it was only the start.
She had trembled as she told him when her husband might be back. She, too, was ready for a new life.
The last time they saw each other had been Saturday. He had turned up on the spur of the moment, the newspaper in his hand as they had agreed.
She was alone but in a state. Let him in reluctantly but wouldn’t say what was wrong. She clearly had no sense of what the day might bring.
A Conspiracy of Faith Page 33
