A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  Carl was about to thank her. To step aside like a customs officer and wish her a safe onward journey. He was about to light up another smoke and think some more about Mona.

  “But there was a car here the day before yesterday, the same time as that dreadful accident over near Lindebjerg,” the woman went on.

  Carl nodded. The wheel tracks in the dirt.

  Her expression changed. “There was a car chase, apparently. Two women in one of the vehicles were very badly injured. My brother-in-law’s cousin was one of the paramedics on the scene. He said it was touch and go.”

  Fits well enough, Carl thought. Driving could be a hazardous business in the country. What the fuck else was there to do but tear hell for leather around the landscape?

  “What sort of car was it?” Assad asked.

  The woman twisted her mouth. “We just saw the rear lights, that’s all, and then they were switched off. We can just see the spot from the front room when we’re watching TV. Me and my husband thought it was most likely some couple getting amorous.”

  She rocked her head from side to side. Presumably meaning there was no law against it and that she’d done it plenty of times herself.

  “But then all of a sudden they weren’t there anymore,” she went on. “We saw another pair of lights, and then both vehicles were gone. My husband reckoned afterward it might have been the same cars that were in the accident.” She smiled apologetically, as if to excuse him. “He’s always one for drama.”

  “You say this was on Monday?” Carl glanced across at the wheel tracks. Whoever had pulled in here had chosen a strategic spot indeed. Good view. Close to the railway. And if anything unexpected should happen, you could be back on the road in seconds. “You mentioned an accident,” he continued. “Where did it occur, exactly?”

  “The other side of Lindebjerg. My sister used to live just a couple of hundred meters from the place.” She gave a quick shake of her head. “Moved to Australia she has now, though.”

  And then she told them she was going that way herself as it happened, and that she would show them.

  The woman drove at fifty kilometers an hour max through the woods, with Carl stuck to her back bumper.

  “Should we not turn off the blue light now?” Assad asked a couple of kilometers farther down the road.

  Carl rolled his eyes in exasperation. Of course, what was he thinking? Their little convoy must have looked ridiculous, crawling through the woods at a snail’s pace.

  “Look.” Assad pointed to a patch of road where the sun was finally drying up the morning dew.

  Carl saw it, too. Skid marks on the other side of the road, then ten meters farther along, a second set on their own side.

  Assad leaned forward and peered through the windscreen. Probably a car chase was going on inside his head. He looked like he’d be wrenching an imaginary steering wheel any minute and stepping on pedals that weren’t there.

  “Over there as well!” he exclaimed, pointing to more marks on the road surface that seemed to show a vehicle had braked violently.

  Then the woman in front pulled up and got out.

  “This is where it happened,” she said, gesturing toward a tree trunk all but stripped of bark.

  They walked around a bit, finding a few remaining shards from shattered headlights and deep gouges in the road surface. Obviously, it had been a very serious accident, though why it had occurred seemed far less clear. They would have to get the details from their colleagues in the traffic department.

  “OK, let’s be getting back,” said Carl.

  “Would you like me to drive this time, Carl?”

  Carl looked at his assistant. All this recent evidence of dangerous driving hardly made the prospect attractive. Definitely not. “We’ll check with the traffic boys first,” he said, and climbed in behind the wheel.

  Carl didn’t know the officer who had been in charge of the case and responsible for the on-scene investigations, but he certainly inspired confidence.

  “We had the wreck transported to Kongstedsvej so we could carry out a thorough inspection,” the man said over the phone. “We found traces of paint from the other vehicle at various collision points, though as yet we’re not sure of its exact makeup. Dark in color, probably anthracite, but friction at the moment of collision may have affected the exact shade.”

  “What about the victims?” Carl asked. “Are they alive?”

  He was given a couple of civil registration numbers so he could check for himself.

  “So, as far as you can make out, there was a second vehicle involved?”

  The officer at the other end laughed. “It’s dead certain there was. We just haven’t gone public with it yet. There are clear indications of a car chase over a stretch of road extending back at least two and a half kilometers before the scene of the accident. High-speed and completely reckless. So if the two ladies involved are still alive, it’ll be a miracle.”

  “And there’s no sign of the other driver?”

  The traffic officer confirmed this.

  “Ask him about the women, Carl,” Assad whispered from the passenger seat.

  He did so. Who were they? How did they know each other? That sort of thing.

  “Well,” the voice replied. “They’re both from the Viborg area, which I suppose makes it all a bit odd, crashing on a country road in the middle of nowhere in southern Sjælland. We can see they were back and forth over the Storebælt Bridge a few times that day, but that’s not the strangest part.”

  Carl sensed that the man had been keeping the best bit until last. Typical traffic department, letting the crime boys know they weren’t the only ones with exciting jobs.

  “Oh, and what would that be, then?” he asked.

  “The strangest thing is that shortly prior to the accident they rammed the Storebælt toll barrier and then did all they could to avoid being caught up with by police.”

  Carl stared again at the road in front of him. This was a turnup. Fucking hell.

  “Can you e-mail me the report so I can run through it on the computer here in the car?”

  “Now? Let me check with my superior first.”

  And then he hung up.

  Five minutes later, they were reading through the police report on the two women’s driving. It was anything but the usual. Caught by speed cameras no fewer than four times, twice with each driver, and all on the same day. Toll barrier rammed on the Storebælt Bridge. Dangerous driving on the E20. Pursued by several patrol cars on the same stretch. After which, it seemed they had driven along Route 150 without lights, before ending up crashing on an isolated road leading through woodland.

  “Why would they drive from Viborg to Sjælland, back to Fyn, and then over to Sjælland again, and all hell for leather like that? Any ideas, Assad?”

  “I don’t know, Carl. Right now, I am looking at this.”

  He pointed to the list of speed cameras the two women had been clocked by. Locations as widespread as the E45 south of Vejle, the E20 midway between Odense and Nyborg, and then again on the E20 south of Slagelse.

  Assad moved his finger down a line in the report.

  Carl saw the location he was indicating. It seemed the women had also run into a speed enforcement trial in some village or other. Carl had never heard of the place. Ferslev, it was called, and they had been clocked doing eighty-five in a fifty zone. When all their violations were added to the fact that they had shared the driving, the two of them had both done more than enough to lose their licenses that day.

  Carl plotted Ferslev into the GPS and studied the map. Just outside Skibby. About halfway between Roskilde and Frederikssund.

  Assad put his finger on the screen and moved it slowly upward toward Nordskoven. The same place Yrsa thought there might be a boathouse.

  A fucking turnup, indeed.

  “Call Yrsa,” Carl said, shifting the car into gear. “Tell her to get all the information she can on these two women. Give her their civil registration number
s and make sure she gets a move on. And get her to call us back as soon as she knows which hospital they’ve been admitted to and what condition they’re in. This has got me going, this has.”

  He heard the sound of Assad’s voice, but he was immersed in his own thoughts, imagining the two women’s frenzied dash across the country.

  Probably just a pair of junkies, his common sense tried to whisper in his ear. Junkies, or at least drug couriers. Something like that, and stoned out of their minds most likely. He nodded to himself. That would be it. Why else would they have been driving like that? And who said there had to be another vehicle involved? It could just as easily have been some terrified innocent, torpedoed by mindless lunatics with their veins full of junk. Some poor soul, scared shitless, who’d just wanted to get the fuck away and back home.

  “OK,” he heard Assad say as he finished his call.

  “Did you get hold of her?” he asked. “Did she understand what to do?”

  He tried to gauge Assad’s expression.

  “Hey, Assad. What did Yrsa say?”

  “Yrsa?” Assad looked up. “I don’t know, Carl. The person I spoke to was Rose.”

  40

  He was not happy. Not happy at all.

  Almost two days and nights had passed since the accident, and according to the radio one of the injured women was now making progress. The other one was still in critical condition, but the report didn’t specify who was pulling through and who wasn’t.

  Whichever way around it was, he couldn’t put off his counterstrike any longer.

  The day before, he had gathered information on a new potential family and had then considered driving to Isabel’s house in Viborg to perform a break-in in which her computer would be stolen. But what good would it do if she had already passed on what she knew to her brother?

  And then there was the issue of how much Rachel knew. Had Isabel told her everything?

  Of course she had.

  He had to get rid of the women. He knew that now.

  He turned his gaze to the sky. Always this eternal struggle between him and God. Ever since he was a boy.

  Why couldn’t He leave him in peace?

  He collected his thoughts, switched on the computer, and found the number of the Trauma Center of the Rigshospital. He got through to an imperious secretary who gave him little to go on.

  Both women had been moved to Intensive Care, that much she knew.

  He sat for a moment staring at his notepad.

  Intensive Care Unit: ITA 4131.

  Phone 35 45 41 31.

  Three tiny pieces of information, vital to him, fatal to others. It was as simple as that, no matter who might be watching him from on high.

  He Googled the number of the department and found its homepage almost at the top of his search.

  It was a tidy site. As clean and clinical as the Rigshospital itself. One click on Practical Information, another on Information for Families.pdf, and a brochure appeared on his screen containing everything he needed to know.

  He scrolled through the document.

  There was a shift change between three thirty and four P.M. That was when he would strike. When they were most unawares.

  This unbelievably helpful brochure also told him that the presence of relatives and loved ones could be a source of great comfort and support to the patient. So from now on he was a relative. He would buy flowers. Flowers were always a comfort. And he would be sure to wear the right expression, so everyone would know how deeply affected he was.

  He read on, and it got better. Relatives and close friends of any patient admitted to the unit were welcome at anytime.

  Close friends, and at anytime!

  He thought for a moment. It would be best if he pretended to be a close friend. That would be harder to check. A close friend and confidant of Rachel. Someone from her congregation. He would put on a friendly, innocuous mid-Jutland accent to justify him staying so long. Just as long as he needed. After all, he had come a long way.

  All this and more he gleaned from the Intensive Care Unit’s presentation. He found out where he could make tea and coffee and learned that doctors were available for consultation during the daytime. There were photos showing the layout of the rooms and how they were equipped and precise information about IV apparatus and monitoring equipment.

  He studied the photos of the monitors and knew he had to make sure he killed quickly and vanished immediately. The very instant a patient expired in a unit like this, every piece of equipment in the room would go haywire. Staff in the observation center would be alerted as soon as it happened. They would be there in no time, initiating the resuscitation attempt within seconds. These people were professionals, as indeed they should be.

  So not only did he need to kill quickly, he also had to kill in such a way as to eliminate the possibility of resuscitation and, most important, to raise no suspicion that the cause of death was anything but natural.

  He spent half an hour in front of the mirror. Drawing lines on his brow, fixing a new hairpiece, changing the appearance of his eyes.

  When he had finished, he considered the results with satisfaction. Here was a man stricken with grief. A man in late middle age, with glasses, graying hair, and pallid skin. A far cry from the real him.

  He opened his medicine cabinet, pulled out a drawer, and took out four small, plastic packages. Ordinary syringes of the kind anyone could purchase without prescription in any pharmacy. Ordinary needles like the ones thousands of drug addicts jabbed into their veins every day with society’s full blessing.

  It was all he needed.

  A syringe filled with air, a needle inserted into a vein. Death would come quickly. And he would be able to move from one room to the next and do away with them both before the alarms went off.

  It was a matter of timing.

  He was looking for Intensive Care, department 4131. There were directional signs and a lift straight to the door, so it seemed. The department number indicated entrance, floor, and section. At least, that’s what it said in the hospital’s official directory information.

  Entrance 4, Floor 13, Section 1. But apparently the lift only went as far as Floor 7.

  He looked at his watch. The shift change was approaching, so there was no time to waste.

  He slipped past a pair of the walking wounded and found the information desk at the main entrance. The man behind the glass appeared to have come down in the world, but he was both efficient and friendly.

  “No, that would be Entrance 41, Floor 3, Section 1. Take the lift from Entrance 3 over there.”

  He pointed, then wrote it down in pen on a photocopied location map that he shoved through the hatch for good measure. Patient admitted to Department…, it said, followed by the correct combination of numbers.

  Perfect directions to the crime scene. Thanks for the help.

  He stepped out of the lift on the third floor and followed the signs that took him straight to the unit. Double doors with white curtains led inside. If he hadn’t known better, he might have thought it was a funeral parlor.

  He smiled. In a way, it was.

  If the level of activity inside matched that in the corridor, where not a soul was to be seen and empty shopping carts lined the wall, it would suit him well.

  He pulled the cord to open the doors.

  The unit seemed at first glance to be bigger than it actually was. He had not anticipated much going on, imagining instead deep concentration and quiet industry. But it wasn’t like that at all. Not at the moment, anyway.

  Perhaps he hadn’t chosen his time quite as well as he had thought.

  He passed two small seating areas for visitors and headed straight for reception. A colorful arch that would make anyone stop.

  The secretary nodded to say she would be with him in a second.

  He glanced around.

  Doctors and nurses milled about. Some were in with their patients; others sat at computer screens in small anterooms outside each p
atient room. Others strode purposefully up and down the corridor.

  Maybe it was on account of the shift change, he thought to himself.

  “Is this a bad time?” he asked the secretary in a broad Jutland accent.

  She glanced at her watch and then looked up at him with a friendly expression. “Perhaps not the best. Who would you be looking for?”

  Concern appeared in his face, exactly as he had practiced at home. “I’m a friend of Rachel Krogh,” he said.

  She tipped her head inquiringly. “Rachel? We’ve no Rachel here. Do you mean Lisa Krogh?” She looked down at her screen. “Lisa Karin Krogh, it says here.”

  What the hell had he been thinking? Rachel was the name she used in her congregation, not her real name. He knew that.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Lisa, of course. We belong to the same congregation, you see. We use biblical names there. Lisa’s is Rachel.”

  The secretary’s expression changed, though almost imperceptibly. Didn’t she believe him, or was it merely an aversion to things religious? Was she going to ask for some ID?

  “I know Isabel Jønsson too,” he added, before she got ideas. “The three of us are friends. They were brought in together, as far as I gather from your colleagues downstairs at the Trauma Center. Would that be correct?”

  She nodded. A rather clenched smile, but a smile nonetheless.

  “That’s correct, yes. You’ll find them both in there.” She pointed to a room and told him the number.

  The same room. It couldn’t be better.

  “You’ll have to wait, though, I’m afraid. Isabel Jønsson’s being transferred to another unit. A doctor and some of the nurses are getting her ready. And she’s got another visitor waiting at the moment, so could I ask you not to go in until he leaves? We prefer if there’s only one lot in at a time.” She indicated the seating area closest to the exit. “He’s sitting along there. Perhaps you know each other.”