A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  He picked up the girl in his arms and heaved her back into the boathouse in one seamless movement, slammed the door shut, and fastened the bolt with the split pin.

  He straightened up and glanced around. Apart from the boy’s protests, all was still quiet. No sirens. No sounds that didn’t belong. At least, not yet.

  He took a deep breath. What might he expect now? Were more police on their way, or were these two working off their own bat, trying to impress their superiors? He needed to know.

  If they were on their own, he could carry on with his plan. But if they weren’t, he would need to make a getaway. Whatever the circumstances, he would have to get rid of all four of them as soon as he knew one way or the other.

  He was back at the outbuilding in leaps and bounds and snatched up the baling twine that hung behind the door.

  He had tied people up before. It didn’t take long.

  There was a commotion from inside the boathouse as he secured the unconscious men’s hands behind their backs. It was the boy, yelling now at the top of his lungs, demanding to be let out. Screaming that his parents would never pay if he and his sister didn’t come home.

  He was a fighter. He’d give him that.

  And then the lad began to kick at the door.

  He checked the bolt. It had been years since he had fixed it to the door, but the timber was still good. It would hold.

  He dragged the two men away from the boathouse, so the light from the outbuilding would illuminate their faces. Then he pulled the larger of the pair half upright until he sat bent double on the path.

  He got down on his knees in front of him and slapped him hard and repeatedly in the face. “Hey, wake up!” he commanded.

  Eventually, the detective came around. His eyes rolled in his head. He blinked a couple of times and tried to focus.

  They stared at each other. The roles were reversed now. He was no longer the suspect questioned at a table in a bowling alley, having to account for his whereabouts.

  “Bastard piece of shit,” the officer mumbled. “We’ll get you. Backup’s on its way. We’ve got your prints.”

  He stared into the detective’s eyes. The man was clearly still stunned. His pupils reacted too slowly when he leaned aside and let the light from the outbuilding fall suddenly on his face. Maybe that was why he was so surprisingly calm. Or was it because the man simply didn’t believe he was capable of killing them?

  “Backup. Nice try,” he replied. “But let them come, by all means. You can see all the way to Frederikssund across the fjord from here,” he said. “We’ll see the blue lights as soon as they hit Crown Prince Frederik’s Bridge. Plenty of time to do the necessary before they get here.”

  “They’ll come from the south. From Roskilde. You’ll see fuck all, you bastard,” said the policeman. “Let us go. Give yourself up. You’ll be out in fifteen years. If you kill us, you’re a dead man, I promise. Shot by police, or else you’ll rot away serving a life sentence. Same difference. Police killers don’t survive in this system.”

  He smiled. “You’re talking like someone had hit you on the head. And you’re lying. And if you don’t answer my questions, you’re going to be in that tank over there in the outbuilding in…” he glanced at his watch “…let’s say twenty minutes from now. You and the kids, and your mate there. And do you know what?”

  He thrust his face into the policeman’s. “I’ll be long gone.”

  The banging from the boathouse intensified. It was more forceful now, and more metallic. Instinctively, he glanced toward the spot where he had dropped the hammer.

  His instinct was right. It was gone. The girl must have picked it up without him noticing before he carried her inside. Shit. She hadn’t been as far gone as he’d thought, the sneaky little bitch.

  He drew the knife slowly from his belt. There was no alternative now.

  52

  Strangely, Carl wasn’t frightened. Not because he doubted that the man in front of him was insane enough to kill him without a moment’s hesitation, but because everything around him seemed so very peaceful. Clouds drifting across the sky, blotting out the moon. The gentle lapping of the fjord. The smell of the earth. Even the hum of the generator behind him felt calming. It was odd.

  Maybe it was all still down to the blow he had been dealt. At any rate, his head was throbbing, shifting all focus from the pain in his arm and shoulder.

  Then came the banging from the boathouse again. Louder than before.

  He looked at the man. He had taken a knife from his belt.

  “You want to know how we traced you, am I right?” Carl said, sensing some feeling return to his hands that were tied behind his back. He glanced up into the drizzling rain. It was the wet, making the twine expand. He needed to gain time.

  The man’s eyes were cold as stone. Then came a slight twitch of the lip.

  He was right. If there was one thing the bastard wanted to know, it was how they had found him.

  “There was a boy once, a boy called Poul. Poul Holt, do you remember him?” he asked, soaking the twine in the wet grass behind him. “He was a bit special, was Poul.” His hands were working now, twisting and straining indiscernibly.

  He allowed his words to hang in the air and nodded reflectively. There was no hurry. Regardless of whether the twine held or not, the longer he kept the killer’s attention, the longer they would remain alive. He smiled to himself. It was interrogation in reverse. How ironic.

  “What about him?” the man demanded to know.

  Carl laughed. The intervals between hammering from the boathouse were longer now, but the blows sounded more precise.

  “Long time ago now, isn’t it? Do you remember? That girl in there wasn’t even born then. Or maybe you never think about your victims? No, of course you don’t.”

  At that, the man’s expression changed, and a shiver ran down Carl’s spine.

  In one swift movement, the man sprang to his feet and pressed the knife to Assad’s throat. “You answer me now. No more bullshit, or your friend here will be choking on his own blood. Are you with me?”

  Carl nodded, his hands working. The guy meant what he said, no doubt about it.

  And now he turned toward the boathouse. “I’m going to make you suffer before you die, if you keep that up, Samuel. Believe me!” he yelled.

  The banging stopped for a second. Carl could hear the girl sobbing inside. And then Samuel continued.

  “Poul managed to send a message in a bottle. You should have chosen a better place to shut people away than a boathouse over water,” Carl said.

  The man frowned. A message in a bottle?

  Now the twine began to give. “It turned up in a fishing net off the coast of Scotland some years ago. And eventually it ended up on my desk,” he went on, his wrists working purposefully and without pause.

  “Too bad for you,” said the man, though clearly his curiosity had yet to be satisfied.

  It wasn’t hard to read his thoughts. How could a message in a bottle possibly harm him? None of the children he had held captive in the boathouse over the years had any way of knowing where they were. How could a message in a bottle change that?

  Carl detected a movement in Assad’s leg.

  Stay put, Assad. Sleep on. There’s nothing you can do anyway. The only thing that could help them now was if he could loosen the twine around his wrists sufficiently for him to get his hands free. And even then there was no telling what would happen. The man was strong and unscrupulous and brandishing a very nasty-looking knife. The blow to Carl’s head had undoubtedly slowed his reactions. All in all, there was little hope. If only he had called Roskilde for backup, so their aid would come from the south, they might have had a chance. But the Frederikssund police could hardly avoid heralding their own arrival. The bastard was right about that. As soon as they hit the bridge, the sky would light up blue. That would be in a couple of minutes at the most. And then it would all be over. He realized that now. The twine was still too t
ight.

  “Get out of here, Claus Larsen, or whatever your name is. Get away while you still have the chance,” Carl spat, as the blows Samuel was delivering to the door suddenly took on a deeper resonance.

  “You’re right about one thing, at least. My name’s not Claus Larsen,” the man said, still straddling Assad’s lifeless body. “And you’ve no idea as to my true identity. What’s more, my guess is that you and your mate are all on your own tonight. So why would I want to run away? What makes you think there’s anything at all for me to be afraid of?”

  “Get going, whatever your name is. It’s not too late. Disappear and find yourself another life. We’ll be looking for you, but maybe you can repent in the meantime. Are you capable of that?”

  The twine gave unexpectedly.

  He stared into the man’s eyes and saw the reflection of blue. Police cars crossing the bridge. The end had come.

  Carl straightened his back and drew his legs up beneath him. The man looked up, seeing the blue lights burst forth into the sky, mirrored in the fjord. He raised the knife into the air above the defenseless Assad. And at that moment Carl launched himself forward, headlong into the man’s leg. The kidnapper staggered and fell, still with the knife in his hand, then clutched at his hip and gave his assailant a look Carl was sure would be the last thing he ever saw.

  And then his hands were free.

  He scrambled to his feet and put up his guard. Empty hands against the man’s knife. What good would it do? He sensed how dazed he still was. Unable to run, however much he wanted to. However much the monkey wrench on the floor of the outbuilding beckoned, he was unable to coordinate his limbs and run. Everything around him seemed to contract and expand at once.

  He staggered a couple of steps backward as the man got to his feet with the knife pointed toward him. His heart pounded, his head throbbed. Mona’s gorgeous eyes flashed before him.

  He planted his feet to keep himself steady. The paving stones were slippery, and once again he felt the mush of slugs on the soles of his shoes.

  The flashing blue reflections from the bridge were no longer visible. They would be here in five minutes. If he could just hold his ground a little longer, he might be able to save the children’s lives.

  He looked up at the branches of the trees hanging over the path. Could he reach them and perhaps pull himself up? He took another step backward.

  But now the man rushed forward with the blade aimed at Carl’s chest, his eyes flaming with rage.

  What sent him flying was a small foot, shoe size barely 40.

  Assad stuck out his short leg, striking the man’s ankle just enough to knock him off balance. At first, it looked like he would manage to stay upright, but then his bare feet went from under him in the gastropods’ slime. There was a sickening smack as his cheek hit the paving. Carl stepped forward immediately and kicked him as hard as he could in the stomach until he let go of the knife.

  Carl picked it up, then hauled the man to his feet. He stared into his eyes and pressed the blade against his jugular. Behind them, Assad struggled to raise himself onto his elbow, only to vomit and fall back. A stream of Arabic expletives issued from his mouth along with the bile of his stomach. If the sound of his invective was anything to go by, he was going to be all right.

  “Do it,” said the man. “I’m tired of your ugly face.”

  And abruptly he thrust his head forward in a desperate suicide bid. Carl saw it coming and jerked the knife away from him. The blade nicked the man’s throat. The wound was superficial.

  “I thought as much,” the man sneered, blood now running down his neck. “You can’t, can you? You haven’t got the guts.”

  He was wrong. One more move like that and Carl knew he would let the man run himself through on the blade. Assad would be his bleary witness that the man had effected his own death. So let him just try. Save the courts the bother.

  At that moment, the noise from the boathouse ceased.

  Carl glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw the door fly open.

  And then the bastard in front of him was in his face again.

  “You never said how you found me. Still, it’ll come out at the trial,” he said. “How long did you reckon I’d get? Fifteen years, was it? It’ll be a doddle.” He threw his head back and began to laugh. Any second now and he could make a renewed thrust toward the knife. His decision.

  Carl tightened his grip on the shaft, fully aware of how horrific an experience it would be.

  Then came a sound like the breaking of an egg. A short, rather unremarkable sound. The man sank to his knees and slumped silently onto his side. Carl looked up at Samuel, standing before him with the hammer in his hand, eyes red with tears. He had smashed open the lock from the inside using the hammer. Where the hell had he got it from?

  Carl looked down. He dropped the knife from his hand and bent over the man, who lay twitching on the ground. He was still breathing, but the life would be gone from him in minutes.

  What he had witnessed was an execution. Premeditated murder. The man had already been restrained. The boy had almost certainly realized that.

  “Drop the hammer, Samuel,” he said and glanced toward Assad. “It was self-defense. We agree on that, don’t we, Assad?”

  Assad cocked his head and thrust out his lower lip.

  His reply came in spurts as he threw up. “We are always in agreement, Carl. Are we not?”

  Carl considered the crumpled figure lying in the slime on the path in front of him. The kidnapper’s mouth was agape, his eyes wide open.

  “Fuck you,” the man breathed.

  “Fuck you, too,” said Carl.

  The sound of sirens came through the woods.

  “They say confession makes for an easier death,” Carl said quietly. “How many have you killed?”

  The man winked. “Many.”

  “How many?”

  “Many.”

  And then he seemed to succumb. His head lolled to the side, exposing the terrible injury to the back of his skull. That, and the long line of a ruddy scar behind his ear.

  A gurgling sound came from his mouth.

  “Where’s Benjamin?” Carl demanded, urgently now.

  The man’s eyes closed slowly. “He’s with Eva.”

  “Who’s Eva?”

  He winked again, a strained movement. “My ugly sister.”

  “What’s your name? I need a surname. Who are you?”

  The man smiled, then uttered his final words:

  “I’m Chaplin.”

  EPILOGUE

  Carl was knackered. He dumped a folder on top of a pile in the corner.

  Case closed. Solved and done.

  Since Assad had sent the Serbian gorilla flying down the basement corridor, a lot of water had run under that particular bridge. Marcus Jacobsen’s people had taken care of the three most recent arsons, but the one from Rødovre in 1995 had been kicked back downstairs to Department Q. The continuing gang conflict was taking up too many resources for the third floor to be arsed with it.

  Arrests had been made in Serbia and Denmark. Now all they needed were a couple of confessions. Carl reckoned they’d have a long wait. The Serbs they’d apprehended would rather molder in a Danish prison for fifteen years than get on the wrong side of those they had been working for.

  The rest was up to the regional prosecutor.

  He stretched and decided to grab a few minutes’ shut-eye in the flicker of the flatscreen. The drone of the news channel. Something about government ministers not being able to get on a bike without falling off again and breaking their bones.

  Then the phone rang. Fucking contraption.

  “We’ve got visitors, Carl,” said Marcus at the other end. “Could you come upstairs, all three of you?”

  It was the middle of July, and it had been raining for ten days solid. The sun had gone into hibernation. What reason on earth could there possibly be to go upstairs? The third floor was just as dark as the basement.
/>   He climbed the stairs without managing so much as a word to Rose and Assad. These god-awful holidays. Jesper was home all day and his girlfriend with him. Morten was away on a cycling trip with some bloke called Preben, and they seemed to be in no hurry to get back. In the meantime, they had a nurse looking after Hardy, and Vigga was traipsing around India in the company of a man who kept two meters of hair stashed in his turban.

  And he was stuck here while Mona and her kids were off tanning in Greece. If only Assad and Rose had got their arses away somewhere, too, he could have spent the whole day with his feet up on the desk watching the Tour de France in peace.

  Holidays were the pits. Especially when they weren’t his.

  He glanced in the direction of Lis’s empty chair as they arrived on the third floor. Maybe she was away in that camper van again with her horny husband. Perhaps Ms. Sørensen ought to give that a try. A couple of weeks shagging in the back of a camper would surely put some life into even a mummified specimen like her.

  He gave the old heron a restrained wave and was given the finger in return. Very sophisticated. Miserable cow.

  He opened the door of Marcus Jacobsen’s office and found himself face-to-face with a woman he failed to recognize.

  “Carl,” said Marcus from behind his desk. “Mia Larsen is here with her husband to thank the three of you in person.”

  Only then did Carl notice the man standing slightly apart. He knew his face instantly. The man from outside the burning house in Roskilde. Kenneth, the one who rescued Mia from the blaze. He looked again at the woman standing so sheepishly in front of him. Was this really the same person?

  Rose and Assad extended their hands in greeting. Carl hesitantly followed suit.

  “I do apologize,” said the young woman. “I know how busy you must be, but I wanted to thank you personally for saving my life.”

  They stood for a moment and stared at each other. Carl was at a loss for words.