A Conspiracy of Faith (39 page)

As soon as he got back to his office, he checked the weather service’s archive on the Internet and found that it only went back as far as 1997. He called them, explained his business, and put forward what he thought was a simple inquiry, expecting to receive an equally simple answer.

“Can you tell me what the weather was like during the days following the sixteenth of February 1996?” he asked.

The reply came after only a few seconds.

“There was a fierce snowstorm on the eighteenth of February that brought the country practically to a standstill for three or four days. Even
the border to Germany was closed. It was that bad,” said the woman at the other end.

“Really? That would include Nordsjælland, then?”

“The whole country, but worst in the south. In the north, roads were passable in widespread areas.”

Why the hell hadn’t they asked about the weather before now?

“So it would have been windy, then?”

“I’ll say.”

“What about wind turbines in weather like that?”

The woman paused for a moment. “Are you asking whether the wind was too strong to have them running?”

“Erm, I suppose so, yeah. Would they shut the turbines down in that kind of wind?”

“I’d certainly think so, though I’m not an expert on that. But yes, they’d have been shut down during the period, otherwise they’d have been wrecked.”

Carl tapped a cigarette from the packet with his free hand as he offered his thanks. What on earth had the children heard, then, if it hadn’t been wind turbines? Some of the noise would have been the storm itself, of course. They’d have been sitting there freezing inside the boathouse, unable to see out, so it was certainly possible that all they had heard was the wind. They might not even have known about the snow at all.

Carl found Pasgård’s mobile number and called him.

“Yeah,” came the reply. Unaccommodating even in a single syllable. Some people were like that.

“It’s Carl Mørck. Did you check up on the weather during the days the children were being held?”

“Not yet, but I’ll look into it.”

“Save your energy. There was a snowstorm that lasted for three of the five days they were imprisoned.”

“You don’t say.”

A typical Pasgård comment.

“Forget the wind turbines, Pasgård. It was blowing up a gale.”

“What about the other two days?”

“Tryggve told me he heard the rumbling sound all the time. Maybe more subdued the last three days. That would be explained by the storm drowning it out.”

“Maybe.”

“Just thought you should know.”

Carl chuckled silently. Pasgård was probably kicking himself.

“You’ll need to be looking for another source of the noise than wind turbines,” he continued. “Though still some kind of rumbling sound. What about that fish scale, anything turned up there?”

“One step at a time. It’s with the Department of Biology for microscopy. Aquatic Biology Section.”

“Microscopy?”

“Yeah, or whatever it is they do. I’ve already found out it’s from a trout. The issue seems to be whether it’s a sea trout or a fjord trout.”

“Aren’t they different altogether?”

“Apparently not. It seems a fjord trout is just a sea trout that can’t be arsed to swim any farther, so it stays put.”

Carl felt exasperated. Yrsa, Assad, Rose, and now Pasgård.

“One last thing, Pasgård. Call Tryggve Holt and ask him if he can tell us what the weather was like while they were in the boathouse.”

The moment he ended the call, the phone rang.

“Antonsen,” said the voice. The tone alone gave Carl cause for concern. “Your man Assad and Samir Ghazi have been knocking the snot out of each other here. If we weren’t the police, we’d have had to call them. Propel yourself over here sharpish and take your little ruffian home with you.”

Whenever Isabel Jønsson needed
to describe her upbringing, she always said she grew up in Tupperwareland. She was raised by two sensible parents in a yellow-brick bungalow with a Volvo in the driveway. Ordinary people with ordinary educations and opinions broadly in line with the rest of the conservative masses. It was a neatly presented childhood, germ-free and vacuum-packed. Elbows off the table and playing cards back in the bureau after bridge. Table manners and polite handshakes. Isabel completed her schooling. And her brother even insisted on doing his military service despite having been exempted.

But she scattered these deeply entrenched standards to the four winds whenever she flung herself into the arms of a capable man. Or at times like this, slightly exceeding the specified top speed of her battered 2002 Ford Mondeo as she and Rachel raced along Route 13 and on to the E45.

The GPS gave them an ETA of 5:30 P.M., but she would beat that easily.

“I’ve got a suggestion,” she said to Rachel, who sat clutching her mobile phone. “Promise not to get upset?”

“I’ll try,” came the quiet reply.

“If we don’t find him or the children at this address in Ferslev, then I think we’re going to have to do as he says.”

“I know, we already talked about that.”

“Unless, that is, we want to buy ourselves more time.”

“What do you mean?”

Isabel ignored a succession of extended middle fingers as she tore along
in the fast lane without reducing her speed, flashing her headlights to clear the way ahead.

“What I mean is…and this is where you mustn’t freak out, Rachel. What I mean is that we don’t actually know how safe the children are even if we give him the money. Do you understand me?”

“I think they’ll be safe.” Rachel spoke each word with emphasis. “If we give him the money, he’ll let them go. We already know too much about him for him to run any more risks.”

“Stop, Rachel. That’s exactly my point. If you pay the ransom and get the kids back, what would stop you from going to the police afterward? Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“I’m certain he’ll be out of the country as soon as he gets the money. He won’t care what we do afterward.”

“You think so? He’s not stupid, Rachel. We both know that. Fleeing the country is no guarantee. Most of them get caught anyway.”

“But what’s the alternative?” Rachel shifted uneasily in her seat. “Please drive more slowly,” she pleaded. “If we get stopped by the police, they’ll take away your license.”

“In that case, you’ll have to drive. I take it you’ve passed your test?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s OK then,” Isabel replied, sweeping past a pimped BMW full of young lads wearing precariously angled baseball caps.

“We haven’t got time to hang about,” she went on. “And here’s my point: We don’t know what he’s going to do once he gets the money, and we’ve no way of knowing for sure what he’ll do if the ransom isn’t paid. That’s why we need to be one step ahead. We need to take the initiative here. Do you understand?”

Rachel shook her head so vigorously that Isabel could see her reaction even though her eyes were fixed on the road.

“No, I don’t understand at all.”

Isabel moistened her lips. If this went wrong, it would be her fault. On the other hand, she had the feeling that what she was saying now was right and totally necessary.

“If it turns out this bastard really does have a house at the address we’re headed for, it means we’re much closer to him than he ever thought possible, even in his worst nightmares. He’ll be racking his psychopathic brains to figure out where he went wrong. That will make him uncertain as hell about what you’re going to do next, OK? He’ll be vulnerable, and that’s exactly what we need.”

They passed fifteen vehicles before Rachel answered.

“Let’s talk about it later. I need to be in peace for a while.”

Isabel glanced at her as they crossed the bridge over the Lillebælt strait. Not a sound escaped Rachel’s lips, but closer inspection revealed that they were in constant motion. Her eyes were closed, and her hands gripped her mobile phone, making her knuckles show white.

“You really believe in God, don’t you?” said Isabel.

A brief moment elapsed while Rachel concluded her prayer before opening her eyes.

“Yes, I do. I believe in the Mother of God, and that She is here to look after unhappy women like me. That’s why I pray to Her, and She will hear me, I’m certain.”

Isabel frowned but nodded and remained silent.

Anything else would have been cruel.

Ferslev lay in a patchwork of agricultural land close to the Isefjord. A pastoral idyll, which couldn’t be more different from the horror they were searching for, hidden away in a corner of the village.

Isabel felt her heart rate increase as they approached their destination. Close up, they realized that the house could hardly be seen from the road, tucked away as it was behind trees. Rachel took hold of Isabel’s arm and asked her to pull in.

Rachel’s face was white as a sheet, and she kept rubbing her cheeks as though trying to get her circulation going. Her brow was moist with perspiration, and her lips were pressed tightly together.

“Pull over here, Isabel,” she said as they approached the windbreak.
She staggered out of the car and fell on her knees at the side of the road. Clearly, she was in a bad way, whimpering with each outpouring of vomit until her stomach was finally empty.

“Are you OK?” Isabel asked. A large Mercedes swept past.

Silly question. The woman was throwing her guts up, but convention dictated that Isabel ask.

“I feel better now,” Rachel said, settling back in the passenger seat and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “What do we do now?”

“We drive up to the house. He thinks my brother in the police knows all about him. So if he’s there, he’ll let the children go as soon as he sees me. He won’t dare do anything else. All he’ll be able to think about is getting away.”

“We should leave the car here so we’re not blocking his way out, making him feel trapped,” said Rachel. “Otherwise he might do something desperate.”

“No, I think we should do just that. Block the track with the car. His only escape route then will be over the fields. If he’s able to get away in the car, there’s a risk he’ll take the children with him.”

Rachel looked like she might be sick again. She swallowed twice in quick succession and calmed herself.

“I know, Rachel. This is not something you’re used to. Me neither, for that matter. I don’t feel that great myself. But we’re here now, and we’re going to do it.”

Rachel looked at her. Her eyes were filled with tears and yet devoid of emotion. “I’ve been through more in my life than you imagine,” she said, her voice surprisingly harsh. “I’m scared, but not for myself. This mustn’t go wrong.”

Isabel parked the car diagonally across the track leading up to the house, and then they stood in the yard in the shadow of the trees and waited to see what would happen.

Pigeons cooed on the roof, and a gentle breeze whispered through the
long grass at the sides of the house. Apart from that, the only sign of life was the sound of their own breathing.

The windows of the house were dark. Maybe they were just dirty, or maybe curtains had been drawn inside. They couldn’t tell. Rusty garden tools, worn down by use, leaned up against the wall, and the painted woodwork was flaking everywhere. The place seemed dead, uninhabited. It wasn’t what they had expected.

“Come on,” Isabel said, and strode up to the main door. She knocked hard and fast. Then she stepped to one side and hammered her knuckles against the window of the porch. There was no response.

“Holy Mother of God. If they’re inside, they might be trying to answer,” said Rachel, suddenly breaking out of her trance. And then she snatched up a hoe with a broken shaft that lay on the cobbles at the base of the wall and swung it resolutely against the pane.

It was obvious to Isabel that being practical was an important part of Rachel’s everyday life. She flipped the hoe onto her shoulder and unlatched the window. Everything about her now showed that she was ready to put the tool to use against the kidnapper if he should turn out to be inside with her children. Ready to demonstrate to him that he would be wise to give a great deal of consideration indeed to his next move.