A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  The fact of the matter was he had a good voice.

  But there was one thing he would have to do: find a plastic surgeon who could remove the scar behind his right ear, the gash from the nail when they caught him spying on his stepsister. How the hell did they find out about his scar? Had he been careless with his disguise at some point? He’d always made sure he covered it up ever since that strange boy he killed had asked him how it got there. What was his name again? It had got to the stage now where he could hardly tell them apart.

  He let it go and thought instead of what had happened at the bowling center.

  If they reckoned they were going to find his prints on that bottle of mineral water, they were mistaken. He had wiped it clean with a serviette while they were questioning Lars Brande. They wouldn’t find anything on the tables or chairs, either. He had been much too careful for that.

  He smiled to himself. Yes, he had been meticulous.

  And then he remembered the bowling bag. Two bowling balls with his fingerprints all over them, and in the thumbholes two receipts that could lead them to his address in Roskilde.

  He took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on staying calm so as not to worsen the bleeding.

  Nonsense, he thought to himself. They won’t find those receipts. Not to begin with, at least.

  No, he had all the time in the world. Maybe they would trace him back to his house in Roskilde in a day or two. But all he needed was half an hour.

  He turned down his road and immediately saw the young man on the lawn in front of the house. Standing there, calling Mia’s name.

  Another obstacle.

  Remove him from the equation. Do it now.

  He would park the car a little farther away.

  He reached for the blood-covered knife in the glove compartment, then drove slowly past the house, turning his head away as he passed. Her suitor sounded like a randy tomcat, wailing pathetically like that. Did she really prefer that adolescent to him?

  And then he noticed the elderly couple across the road peeping through their curtains. How come old people always had to be so nosy?

  He speeded up.

  There was nothing he could do. Not with witnesses.

  They would just have to find the body in the house. What difference would it make? The police already suspected him of serious crimes. He wasn’t sure which, but serious enough.

  Maybe after a while they would find a packing case full of prospectuses from estate agents concerning weekend retreats for sale, but what good would it do them? They were in the dark. No documents existed to indicate which of them he had decided to buy.

  He had no immediate cause for concern. The deeds to Vibegården were at the house itself, in the box with the money and the passports. There was nothing to worry about.

  If only he could staunch this bleeding soon and didn’t get stopped on the way, everything would be all right.

  He found the first-aid box and stripped to the waist.

  The stab wounds were deeper than he had anticipated. The second of them, especially. He had felt sure he’d jerked Pope’s hand toward him with just the right degree of force, but somehow he had expected him to offer more resistance.

  That was why he was bleeding so much. He would have to take the time to remove the traces from the front seat of the Mercedes before he got rid of it.

  He found the syringe and the anesthetic and sterilized the wounds. And then he injected himself.

  He sat for a moment and looked around the living room. He really hoped they weren’t going to find Vibegården. This was the place where he felt most at home. Away from the world, away from its deceit and all its faithlessness.

  Next he prepared the needle and suture. Within a minute, he was able to jab the needle into the flesh around his wounds without feeling a thing.

  Another couple of scars for the plastic surgeon, he thought to himself, and laughed.

  When he had finished, he inspected his work and laughed once again. It was hardly an expert job, but the bleeding had stopped.

  He applied a compress with sticking plaster, then lay down on the sofa. When he was ready, he would go down to the boathouse and kill the children. The sooner he did it, the sooner he could be rid of the bodies. And before long he would be away again.

  Ten minutes. Then he would go to the outbuilding and get the hammer.

  49

  Twenty minutes went by before they knew who had made the cash withdrawal and where he lived. The name was Claus Larsen, and it would take them less than five minutes to get to his house.

  “What are you thinking, Carl?” Assad asked as Carl negotiated the roundabout on Kong Valdemars Vej.

  “I’m thinking it’s a good thing we’ve got backup on our tail and that they remembered to bring their service pistols.”

  “You think that will be necessary, then?”

  He nodded.

  They turned into the road. Even from a distance they could see a man, faintly illuminated by streetlamps, yelling up at a window.

  It wasn’t the man they were looking for. He was younger, slimmer, and utterly desperate.

  “Hurry! Help me! The house is on fire!” he screamed as they ran toward him.

  Carl glanced back as his colleagues screeched to a halt in the car behind, already calling for assistance. The elderly couple standing in their dressing gowns across the way had most likely done the same.

  “Is there anyone in the house?” Carl barked.

  “Yes, I think so. There’s something definitely not right about this house.” The man was completely out of breath. “I’ve been stopping by the last few days, but no one answers the door, and when I call my girlfriend’s mobile, I hear it ringing upstairs, but she never takes the call.” He pointed up at the window in the roof, then put his hands to his head in despair.

  “And why is it on fire now?” he cried.

  Carl looked up at the flames that were now clearly visible in the upstairs window just above the front door.

  “Have you seen a man enter the house within the last half hour or so?” he asked.

  The man shook his head. He could hardly stand still. “I’m going to break the door down,” he shouted, frantic now. “OK?”

  Carl glanced at his colleagues. They nodded.

  He seemed strong and in good shape and plainly knew what he was doing as he took a short run-up, sprang feetfirst at the door, and delivered a sharp, forceful kick against the lock with his heel. Only to give out a painful groan followed by a stream of invective as he fell heavily to the ground, the door still totally intact.

  “The lock’s too strong!” He turned in panic toward the patrol car behind him. “Help me, for God’s sake!” he yelled. “I think Mia’s in there!”

  And then came an earsplitting crash. Carl spun toward the sound in time to see the hunched figure of Assad enter the house through the shattered front window.

  Carl went after him, the young man on his heels. Assad had made a good job of it. Double glazing and window frame lay shattered on the floor, along with the spare wheel he had hurled through the pane.

  They climbed inside.

  “This way!” the man shouted, almost dragging Assad and Carl along with him into the hallway.

  There wasn’t that much smoke on the stairs, but there was plenty once they reached the first floor. It was already impossible to see a hand in front of your face.

  Carl pulled his shirt up to cover his mouth and told the others to do the same. Assad was already coughing behind him.

  “Go back, Assad!” Carl barked. But Assad wasn’t listening.

  From outside came the sound of approaching fire engines, but it was of no comfort to the young man as he felt his way along the wall.

  “I think she’s in here. She says she always keeps her mobile with her,” he spluttered in the thick smoke.

  “Listen, tell me if you can hear it.” He must have dialed a number on his phone, because a couple of seconds later they heard a faint ringing clos
e by.

  The man staggered forward, fumbling to find the door. And then they heard what sounded like a window on the other side of the wall exploding in the blaze.

  One of the local colleagues from Roskilde made it up the stairs, spluttering violently. “I’ve got an extinguisher here, just a small one,” he stammered out. “Where’s the fire?”

  The answer to his question immediately became apparent as the young man flung open the door of the room and flames leaped out at them. There was a loud hiss from the fire extinguisher. Its effect was minimal but enough for them to be able to see inside.

  The sight that met them was not encouraging. The blaze had got a good hold on the ceiling and a mountain of cardboard boxes stacked inside.

  “Mia!” the man yelled in anguish. “Mia, are you in there?”

  And at that same moment a jet of water burst through the shattered roof window from outside, turning the air to steam.

  Carl threw himself to the floor and felt a searing pain in his arm and shoulder as he instinctively covered his face.

  They heard shouts from below, and then came the foam.

  It was all over in seconds.

  “Get all the windows open,” the officer from Roskilde coughed. Carl jumped to his feet and felt his way to a door, the other officer doing likewise.

  As the smoke was sucked out of the upper level, the scene of the blaze was revealed. The young man stood in the doorway, on a sopping wet floor, feverishly heaving packing cases out onto the landing. Several were still aglow, but nothing could stop him.

  And then Carl saw the lifeless body on the landing.

  It was Assad.

  “Out of the way!” he yelled, shoving one of the officers aside.

  He vaulted down a couple of stairs and grabbed hold of Assad’s legs, dragging his body toward him and hauling him over his shoulder.

  “Help him,” he snarled at a pair of rescuers as he came out onto the lawn. They responded quickly with an oxygen mask.

  For God’s sake, help him, was the only thought in his mind, even as cries went up from upstairs.

  He didn’t see the young woman when they brought her down. He noticed her only when they laid her on a stretcher next to Assad. She looked like her body was caught in a seizure, as though rigor mortis had already set in.

  Then they brought out the young man. He was covered in soot, and much of his hair had been singed away, but his face seemed untouched.

  He was crying.

  Carl turned from Assad and went over to him. He looked like he might collapse any minute.

  “You did all you could,” were the only words of comfort Carl could muster.

  And then the young man began to sob and laugh all at once.

  “She’s alive,” he stuttered and sank down to his knees. “I felt a pulse. Her heart’s beating.”

  Behind them, Assad began to cough.

  “What’s going on?” he shouted, arms suddenly flailing.

  “Lie still,” a rescuer told him. “You’re suffering from smoke inhalation. It might be serious.”

  “This is not smoke poisoning. I fell on the stairs and hit my head. I could not see the arse of an elephant in there.”

  Ten minutes passed before the woman opened her eyes. The oxygen and the IV therapy administered by the paramedic worked wonders.

  In the meantime, the firemen were damping down the remains of the blaze, and Assad, Carl, and the local police from Roskilde had already gone through the house, finding no immediate signs of documents relating to any René Henriksen or Claus Larsen. And nothing about any property close to water.

  The only thing they found were the deeds to the house they were in, and they were in the name of another person altogether.

  Benjamin Larsen.

  They checked to see if any Mercedes might be registered at the address. Negative again.

  The guy had so many exit strategies it was beyond belief.

  In the front room was a pair of framed wedding photos, the bride all smiles, bouquet in hand, her groom at once stylish and expressionless. So the woman on the stretcher was his wife. Their names were on the door: Mia and Claus Larsen.

  Poor Mia.

  “It was a good thing you were here, otherwise all this could have been much worse,” he told the young man, who had climbed into the ambulance and was now holding Mia’s hand. “What’s your relationship to this woman? And who are you?” Carl asked.

  He said his name was Kenneth. That was all. Everything else would have to wait.

  “You’ll need to move over a bit, Kenneth. I need to ask Mrs. Larsen some questions of the utmost urgency.” He glanced inquiringly at the paramedic, who flashed a pair of fingers in the air by way of response.

  Two minutes. That was all he could have.

  Carl took a deep breath. This might be their last chance.

  “Mia,” he began, “I’m a policeman. You’re in safe hands now, so there’s no need to be frightened. We’re looking for your husband. Is he the one who did this?”

  She nodded silently.

  “We need to know if your husband owns a property, or has access to one, in close proximity to water. A weekend retreat, perhaps. Would that ring a bell?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Maybe,” she said faintly.

  “Where, Mia?” he asked, trying his best to control his voice.

  “I don’t know. The boxes.” She nodded slightly in the direction of the house.

  This was going to be impossible.

  Carl turned to the Roskilde guys and told them what to look for. A property with a boathouse somewhere along the fjord. If they found a prospectus or anything like it in the packing cases Kenneth had heaved out onto the landing, they were to get hold of him without delay. For the moment, they could forget about the boxes left behind in the room. They had almost certainly been destroyed.

  “Do you know your husband by any name other than Claus Larsen, Mia?” he asked.

  She shook her head.

  And then she lifted her arm very slowly. The exertion of it made her tremble. She put her hand gently to Carl’s cheek.

  “Please find Benjamin. Please.” And with that, her hand fell back and she closed her eyes in exhaustion.

  Carl gave the young man an inquiring look.

  “Benjamin’s their son,” he said. “Mia’s only child. He’s just eighteen months old.”

  Carl sighed and gave the woman’s arm a cautious squeeze.

  What suffering her husband had caused in the world. And who would stop him now?

  He straightened up and allowed a quick check of his singed arm and shoulder. It would hurt like hell for the next couple of days, the paramedic said.

  Too bad.

  “Are you OK, Assad?” he asked. The firemen were already rolling up their hoses as the ambulance drove off down the road.

  His assistant rolled his eyes. Apart from a bit of a headache and soot all over him, he was fine.

  “He’s got away, Assad.”

  Assad nodded.

  “What can we do now?”

  Carl gave a shrug. “It may be dark, but I think we need to get out to the fjord and check the places Yrsa put a ring around.”

  “Do we have the photos with us?”

  Carl nodded and retrieved a plastic folder from the backseat. Fifteen aerial photos. Rings all over them.

  “Why do you think Klaes Thomasen never called us back?” Assad pondered as they got into the car. “He said he would speak to the forest man.”

  “The forest officer. Yeah, he did. Maybe he couldn’t get hold of him.”

  “Do you want me to call Klaes and ask, Carl?”

  Carl nodded and handed Assad his mobile.

  It took a while for Thomasen to answer. When he did, Assad’s frown plainly indicated something was wrong. He snapped the phone shut and turned to Carl with a troubled look on his face.

  “Klaes Thomasen was surprised. He said he told Yrsa yesterday that the forest officer from Nordskoven had conf
irmed there was once a boathouse at the end of the track leading to the gamekeeper’s cottage.” He paused for a second, as though puzzled by the word, then continued. “He told Yrsa to pass the message on. I think that was when you gave her the flowers, Carl. She must have forgotten.”

  Forgotten? Was that what he said? How the hell could she have forgotten? This was crucial information. Was the woman completely brainless, or what?

  He stopped his inner rantings. They wouldn’t help.

  “Where is this boathouse, Assad?”

  Assad drew the map up to the dashboard and pointed. The property had been encircled twice. Vibegården. On Dyrnæsvej, Nordskoven. The same place Yrsa had picked out for them. It was almost too much to bear.

  But how could they have known she had hit the bull’s-eye? And how could they have anticipated that the situation would now be so very urgent? That a new kidnapping was in progress?

  He shook his head. But a new kidnapping was in progress, and the outcome didn’t bear thinking about.

  Everything indicated that two children were now in the same situation Poul and Tryggve Holt had found themselves in thirteen years before. Two children in the most acute danger. At this very moment.

  50

  Reaching Jægerspris, they turned right at a red pavilion that read SCULPTURES AND PAINTINGS, and before long they were in the woods.

  They carried on along asphalt made wet by rain until a sign appeared reading MOTOR VEHICLES PROHIBITED. An address down the track here would be perfect for anyone not wishing to be disturbed.

  They drove slowly on. The GPS told them there was still a fair way to go down to the house, but their headlights lit up the way ahead. If they came to a clearing, they would have to turn them off and carry on in the dark. In a few weeks, there would be leaves on the trees, but for the time being, nature afforded rather less in the way of cover.

  “We’re coming now to a track called Badevej, Carl. You must turn off the headlights. Once we are past, the woods open out.”