A Conspiracy of Faith (40 page)

Isabel kept close behind her as they moved through the house. Apart from four or five gas cylinders lined up in a row in the hall and a few pieces of furniture that seemed almost strategically positioned in front of the gaps in the curtains to make the place seem as if it might be inhabited, the ground floor contained absolutely nothing at all. A layer of dust on the floors and other horizontal surfaces, but otherwise there was nothing. No newspapers, no leaflets, no plates or utensils, bed linen, or empty packaging. Not even toilet paper.

No one lived here, and no one was meant to.

They found the stairs leading to the first floor and ascended with cautious, measured steps.

Upstairs, the walls were clad with plasterboard, papered in all sorts of patterns and colors, a confusion of incompatible styles and a distinct lack
of financial means. Wafer-thin partition walls divided the space into three rooms containing only one piece of furniture: a flaking green wardrobe with its door half open.

The soft light of afternoon brightened the room as Isabel drew back the curtains. She looked in the wardrobe and gasped.

He had been here. She recognized the clothes on the hangers from when he had been staying with her. The suede jacket, the gray Wranglers, and the shirts from Esprit and Morgan. Certainly not the kind of clothing one would expect to see in a place like this.

Rachel gasped, and Isabel knew why. The smell of his aftershave alone was enough to make anyone feel sick.

She took out one of the shirts and examined it quickly. “This hasn’t been washed, so now we’ve got his DNA,” she said, pointing to a hair on the collar, the wrong length and color to be her own.

“Come on, we’ll take some of this with us,” she continued. “It’s not likely, but there might be something in one of the pockets.”

They gathered a handful of items together and Isabel looked out at the barn across the yard. She hadn’t noticed the tire marks in the gravel before, but from up here they were clearly visible. Two compressed tracks in front of the barn, that looked very, very recent.

She drew the curtains.

They left the shards of glass where they were in the porch, closed the door behind them, and glanced around, finding nothing untoward in the garden, the field, or the trees. Then they turned their attention to the padlock that hung from the barn door.

Isabel gestured toward the hoe that Rachel still carried over her shoulder, and Rachel nodded. It took less than five seconds to break the lock.

Both of them gasped as they pulled open the door.

In the barn in front of them stood the van. A light-blue Peugeot Partner.

At Isabel’s side, Rachel quietly began to pray. “Oh, please don’t let my children be dead inside. Please, Mother of God. Don’t let them be dead inside, please…”

Isabel was in no doubt. The predator had flown with his prey. She
grasped the handle and opened the back doors. He hadn’t even gone to the trouble of locking the van, so certain was he that he was safe here.

She put her hand on the hood. It was still warm. Very warm, in fact.

And then she went back out into the yard and stared through the trees toward the road where Rachel had been sick. Either he had gone that way, or else down to the fjord. In any case, he couldn’t be far away.

But they were too late.

Rachel began to shake. The emotional turmoil she had struggled to keep inside on their long drive, the anguish that could not be expressed in words, the pain that had changed her expression and her posture, erupted now in one single scream that sent the pigeons aloft from the roof to seek refuge among the trees with a sudden beating of wings. And when finally the sound had been exhausted, snot ran from her nose, and the corners of her mouth were white with spit. She had realized that the only straw they had to clutch at had snapped.

The kidnapper wasn’t here. Her children were gone. In spite of all her prayers.

Isabel nodded deliberately. This was terrible.

“Rachel, I’m sorry to have to say this, but I think I saw the car pass by while you were being sick,” she said hesitantly. “It was a Mercedes. A black Mercedes. There are thousands of them.”

They stood in silence for a while as the light of the sky dimmed.

What now?

“You mustn’t pay,” Isabel said finally. “You mustn’t allow him to dictate what’s going to happen next. We need to buy time.”

Rachel looked at Isabel as though she had just committed apostasy and had spat upon everything Rachel believed in and stood for. “Buy time? I don’t understand what you’re talking about, and I’m not sure I want to know.”

Rachel glanced at her watch. They were thinking the same thing.

In just a short time, Joshua would be getting on the train at Viborg with a duffel bag full of money, and that, as far as Rachel could see, was that. The ransom would be delivered and the children would be released.
A million kroner was a lot of money, but they would manage. Isabel would not be allowed to throw a wrench in the works. All of Rachel’s body language made that abundantly clear.

Isabel gave a sigh. “Listen, Rachel. We’ve both met this man, and he’s the most terrifying person we’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. Think of how he deceived us. Everything he said and did was a lie.” She reached out and took Rachel’s hands.

“Your faith and my naive infatuation were his instruments. He tricked us when we were at our most vulnerable. He manipulated our feelings, and we
believed
him. Do you understand? We
believed
him, and he
lied
to us, OK? You can’t deny that. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

She did, of course. She wasn’t stupid. But the last thing Rachel needed now was to break down or abandon herself to blind faith. Isabel could see that. And for that reason Rachel had to search the depths, the place of all instinct. She needed to think freely and embark upon a dreadful voyage of comprehension. And Isabel felt for her.

When Rachel opened her eyes again, it was plain that she now knew how close to the edge she stood. Her children might no longer be alive. That was where she was.

And then she breathed in deeply and gave Isabel’s hands a squeeze. She was prepared. “What do you think we should do?” she asked.

“We play along,” Isabel replied. “As soon as we see that strobe, we throw the bag from the train as instructed, only without the money. And when he retrieves it and looks inside, he’ll find items from the house here, proof that we’ve tracked him down.”

She bent down and picked up the padlock and clasp, weighing them in her hand.

“We’ll put these inside, and some of his clothes. And we’ll write a note telling him we’re on to him. That we know where he’s hiding out, we know what name he’s using, and that we’re keeping the place under observation. We’ll tell him we’re closing in on him and that it’s only a matter of time until we find him. He’ll get his money, but he needs to come up with a way for us to know for sure that we’ll get the children back. Until
then, he gets nothing. We need to put the pressure on him, otherwise he’ll dictate everything.”

Rachel lowered her gaze. “Isabel,” she said. “We’re here in Nordsjælland, don’t you realize? We can’t get on the train from Viborg. We won’t be on it to see the strobe between Odense and Roskilde.” She looked up at Isabel and yelled her frustration into her face. “How can we throw him the bag? HOW?”

Isabel grasped her hand again. It was as cold as ice. “Rachel,” she said calmly, “we’ll get there. We’ll drive to Odense now and meet Joshua on the platform. We’ve plenty of time.”

At that moment, Isabel saw something in Rachel she hadn’t seen before. She saw, standing in front of her, not a mother who had lost her children or a farm wife from Dollerup Bakker. All of a sudden, there was nothing rural or motherly about her at all. She was someone else. Someone Isabel had yet to fully encounter.

“Have you thought why he wants us to change trains at Odense?” Rachel asked. “There are so many other possibilities, aren’t there? I’m sure it’s because we’re being watched. Someone will be at the station in Viborg and then again in Odense.” Then she looked away and her thoughts turned inward. She could ask questions but was unable to supply any answers.

Isabel thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. He just wants to hassle you. I’m certain he’s on his own in all this.”

“How can you be certain?” asked Rachel, without looking at her.

“Because that’s the way he is. He’s a control freak. He needs to know exactly what’s happening and when. And he’s calculating, too. He strolled into this local bar, picked me out as a victim straightaway, and was giving me perfectly timed orgasms only hours later. He could lay on breakfast and say things that would stay in my mind the rest of the day. Everything he did was part of the plan, and all of it performed by a virtuoso. He wouldn’t be capable of working with anyone else, and besides, that ransom would be too small if there were accomplices involved. He’s not the kind to share.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“What if I am? Does it matter? We’re the ones issuing the ultimatum tonight, not him. Putting these things in the ransom bag proves that we’ve been here at his hiding place.”

Isabel looked around the dilapidated property. Who was this scheming individual? Why was he doing this? With his good looks, his intelligence, and his ability to manipulate others, the sky would seem to be his limit in any normal life.

It was hard to fathom.

“Let’s get going,” Isabel said. “You can call your husband on the way and put him in the picture. And then we can dictate to him what to write in the note.”

Rachel shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’m scared. I mean, I’m with you up to a point, but aren’t we putting the kidnapper under a lot of pressure here? Isn’t he going to give it all up and get out?” Her lips were quivering now. “And what about my children, if he does? Won’t they suffer? Perhaps he’ll do them harm, something terrible. You hear about these things.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And if he does, what do we do then, Isabel? What do we do then?”

“What the hell happened
out there in Rødovre, Assad? I’ve never heard Antonsen sound off like that before.”

Assad shifted uneasily in his chair. “Nothing to worry about, Carl. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

A misunderstanding? Presumably the French Revolution had broken out over a misunderstanding, too.

“In that case, you need to explain to me how a so-called misunderstanding can lead to two grown men rolling around the floor of a Danish police station knocking the stuffing out of each other.”

“Stuffing?”

“Yes, the stuffing. It’s an idiom. For Chrissake, Assad, you know perfectly well there was a reason you laid into Samir Ghazi like that. And it’s about time you came clean. I want a decent explanation. Where do you two know each other from?”

“We don’t actually know each other at all.”

“Oh, come on, Assad, don’t give me that. People don’t go around beating up strangers for no reason. If it’s something to do with family reunification or forced marriage or someone’s fucking honor, then I want to know—now! We need to get this into the open, otherwise I won’t have you here, are you with me? Remember, Samir’s the policeman, not you.”

Assad turned his head toward Carl with a wounded look in his eye. “I can leave right now, if that is what you wish.”

“I hope for your sake that my long-standing friendship with Antonsen
will be enough for him not to make that decision on my behalf.” Carl leaned across the desk. “Listen, Assad, when I ask you something, I expect you to answer. And if you don’t, it tells me something’s wrong. Maybe something serious enough to affect your residence here in this country, not just lose you this fucking fantastic job of yours.”

“You will perhaps persecute me, then?” Hurt was too mild a word to describe the man’s demeanor.

“Have you and Samir had any altercation with each other before? In Syria, for instance?”

“No, not in Syria. Samir is from Iraq.”

“So you admit there’s a grudge. But you still don’t know each other?”

“Yes, Carl. Would you please not ask me any more about this?”

“I’ll think about it. But if you don’t want me to ask Samir Ghazi for a report on this fight of yours, you’re going to have to give me something to go on and calm me down a bit. And you’re definitely to stay away from Samir from now on, understood?”

Assad sat for a while staring into space before nodding. “I am to blame for one of Samir’s relatives now being dead. It was never my intention, Carl, you must believe this. The truth is I did not even know.”

Carl closed his eyes for a moment.

“Have you committed any crime in this country?”

“No, I swear at you, Carl.”

“Swear
to
me, Assad. You swear
to
me.”

“Yes, that is what I do.”

“So this all happened some time ago?”

“Yes.”

Carl nodded. Maybe Assad would open up another day.

“Have a look at this, you two.” Yrsa barged in through the door without knocking. She had a serious look on her face, for once, and was holding a sheet of paper out in front of her. “It’s a fax from the Swedish police in Ronneby. Just in two minutes ago. This is what he looked like.”

She put the fax down on the desk. It wasn’t a photofit, pieced together
on a computer. This was the real thing. A proper drawing, with shading and all the rest of it, and in color to boot. A male face, pleasing at first blush, but which on closer inspection displayed a number of jarring elements.

“He looks just like my cousin,” Yrsa commented drily. “A pig farmer from Randers.”

“I had not imagined him to look like this exactly,” said Assad.

Carl hadn’t, either. Short sideburns, dark mustache neatly trimmed back above the lip. Hair slightly lighter, precisely parted. Thick eyebrows almost converging. Unremarkable, half-full lips.

“We need to bear in mind that this drawing may not reflect his true appearance. Remember, Tryggve was only thirteen at the time, and just as many years have passed since all this happened. Our man probably looks different now anyway. But how old would you say he was here?”