A Conspiracy of Faith (68 page)

And then Pope turned on his heel in panic, knocking over a couple of tables as he fled toward the lanes.

He clearly knew the place like the back of his hand. He was heading for the maintenance room and the rear exit.

“Look out, he’s got a knife!” he shouted again, and saw everyone step aside as the man came running.

He watched as Pope leaped across lane 19, the little dark guy from the police setting off in pursuit like a predator after its prey. It was an uneven match.

And then he stepped forward and picked up a bowling ball from the rack.

As the detective’s assistant caught up with him at the end of the lane, Pope began to slash at the air in front of him like a madman. Something inside him had snapped. But the policeman dived at his legs, and the two of them went headlong into the gutter between the last two lanes.

The detective was already halfway toward them, but the bowling ball the team’s best player sent hurtling down the far lane was faster.

There was an audible crack as it struck Pope in the temple. Like an unopened bag of potato chips crushed underfoot.

The knife slipped out of Pope’s hand onto the floor.

All eyes moved from the inert figure to the man they all seemed instinctively to know had delivered the strike. A couple of them, at least, also knew why he now sank to his knees, clutching his side.

It was all so perfectly executed.

The detective seemed genuinely shaken when he eventually came over to where he had flopped down on a chair.

“This is serious,” he said. “Svend won’t survive, as far as I can see. His skull’s smashed. If I were you, I’d say a prayer and hope the paramedics do a good job.”

He looked toward the far lane where ambulance crew were clustered around the injured Pope. Say a prayer, the policeman had said. But that was the last thing he was going to do.

A paramedic emptied Svend’s pockets and handed the contents to the detective’s
Arab assistant. These two were thorough. They would call for assistance now and start going through the information. Checking civil registration numbers, his own as well as Pope’s. Scrutinizing alibis. Calling up a hair salon he had never visited. Before long, he would be under renewed suspicion. The time in between was all he had.

The detective at his side stood frowning, his thoughts already churning. And then he looked him straight in the face.

“The man you might just have killed has kidnapped two children. It’s possible he’s already murdered them. But if they’re still alive, they’re going to die of thirst and hunger if we don’t get to them first. In a moment, we’re going to go over and search his house. Maybe you can help us in that respect. Would you have any idea whether he owns a cabin, a weekend retreat, or anything similar in a remote location? A place with a boathouse?”

He managed to disguise his astonishment. How did they know there was a boathouse? How the
hell
could they possibly know?

“Sorry,” he said, his voice controlled. He looked over at the figure on the floor. “I’d like to help, but I’ve no idea.”

The detective shook his head. “Circumstances notwithstanding, there’ll be charges against you for this. Just so you know.”

He nodded deliberately. Why protest against something so obvious? He wanted to seem cooperative. Maybe they would ease up a bit.

The assistant came over, shaking his head.

“Perhaps you are stupid?” he said incredulously, looking him straight in the eye. “This situation was under control. Why did you throw that bowling ball? Do you realize what you have done?”

He raised his bloodied hands by way of explanation. “The man had lost his mind,” he said. “I thought he was going to stab you.”

He clutched at his side again and winced, so they could see how much pain he was in.

And then he sent the assistant an injured, angry look.

“You ought to be grateful I’ve such a good aim,” he said.

The two policemen conferred for a moment.

“Local police will be here in a minute. They’ll take your statement,”
the detective said. “We’ll make sure someone has a look at those wounds of yours. There’s already another ambulance on its way. Just stay calm, it’ll help check the bleeding. It doesn’t look that bad, if you ask me.”

He nodded and withdrew a couple of steps.

Time for the next move.

An announcement came over the PA system. Tournament canceled, due to unforeseen circumstances.

He glanced across at his teammates, who stared emptily into space, almost oblivious to police instructions to stay put.

They had their work cut out now, the police. Things had got out of hand. Most likely they would be tied up with reports all night.

He stood up and walked calmly along the far wall toward the paramedics at the end of lane 20.

Nodding briefly as though in acknowledgment of their efforts, he ducked down and picked up the knife, glancing back and slipping through the narrow passage that led into the maintenance room in one inconspicuous, seamless movement.

Less than twenty seconds later he was up the fire escape and outside in the parking area, hurrying away toward the parking structure by RO’s Torv.

He swung the Mercedes out onto Københavnsvej, just as the blue lights of the ambulance came into view farther down the road.

Three sets of lights and he was gone.

What had happened was
disastrous. A catastrophe, no less.

He had put the two men together, and it had gone terribly wrong.

Carl shook his head in despair. Fucking hell. He had been too eager, too determined. But how could he have known things would go so badly? All he had wanted to do was put the wind up them and see what happened.

Both of them fitted the bill, but which was their man? That was the issue. Both bore at least some resemblance to the police artist’s likeness, and he wanted to see how they would react under duress. He was expert at spotting those burdened by guilt. So he had thought, anyway.

And now it had all gone pear-shaped. The only person who could tell him where the children were was being carried on a stretcher out to a waiting ambulance with his life in the balance, and it was Carl’s fault entirely. The situation was even graver than before.

“Look at this, Carl.”

He turned to Assad, who had Pope’s wallet in his hand. He didn’t look happy.

“Yeah, what is it, Assad? No address?”

“Actually, there is. But that’s not it. There’s something else, and it is not good, Carl. Look!”

He handed him a checkout receipt from a Kvickly supermarket. “Look at the time on it, Carl.”

Carl stared at it for a moment and felt sweat begin to trickle down his neck.

Assad was right. Something else that wasn’t good.

A checkout receipt from Kvickly in Roskilde. It was a modest amount, for a lottery ticket, a newspaper, and a packet of Stimorol. Bought that same day at three twenty-five p.m. Only minutes after Isabel Jønsson was attacked at the Rigshospital in Copenhagen. More than thirty kilometers away.

If this receipt belonged to Pope, then he wasn’t their man. And why shouldn’t it belong to him, being in his wallet?

“Shit,” Carl groaned.

“The paramedics found half a packet of Stimorol chewing gum in his pocket,” Assad said, gazing around the room with a gloomy look on his face.

And then his expression changed. Like a light going on. “Where is René Henriksen?” he burst out.

Carl scanned the premises. Where the fuck was he?

“There!” Assad yelled, pointing in the direction of the narrow passage that led out into the room where the pin machines were serviced and maintained.

Carl saw it straightaway. A streak on the wall, hardly a few centimeters long. But it was blood.

“Bastard,” he snarled and took off across the lanes.

“Be careful, Carl,” Assad shouted behind him. “The knife is gone, too. I think he took it with him.”

Please let him be here
. It was his only thought as he entered a room a couple of meters wide, filled with machinery, tools, and junk. But the place was too quiet. Much too quiet.

He darted past ventilation pipes, ladders, and a work surface cluttered with spray cans and ring binders. And then he was at the back door.

He wrenched it open with dread and peered out into a dark void with a fire escape leading away.

Their man was gone.

Assad returned after ten minutes. Sweating and empty-handed.

“I found blood over by the parking structure,” he said.

Carl exhaled slowly. He had been on tenterhooks and had just received word back from the duty officer at Police HQ.

“No, sorry. Name and civil registration number don’t match,” the officer had told him.

No match! It meant that René Henriksen didn’t exist. And yet this was the man they were looking for.

“OK, thanks, Assad,” he said wearily. “I’ve called in the dog team. They should be here any minute. At least they’ve something to go on, even if it’s our only hope.”

He filled Assad in on the situation. They had no data on the man calling himself René Henriksen. What they did have was a serial killer on the loose.

“I want you to get hold of the chief superintendent here in Roskilde. His name’s Damgaard,” Carl said after a moment. “I’ll call Marcus Jacobsen.”

He was not unused to disturbing his boss at home. Jacobsen was available at that number around the clock. That was the standing agreement.

“Violence never rests in the city, so why should I?” he always said.

Nevertheless, Marcus sounded anything but pleased to be dragged away from his domestic bliss when he heard why Carl was calling.

“For God’s sake, Carl. Roskilde’s not my jurisdiction, you know that. Get on to Damgaard instead.”

“I know that, Marcus, and Assad’s trying to find his number as we speak, but the moron who fucked up is one of yours.”

“Well, I never thought I’d hear that kind of admission coming from Carl Mørck, I must say.” He sounded almost pleased.

Carl dismissed the thought. “There’ll be journalists crawling all over this place any minute now,” he said. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Put Damgaard in the picture, then pull yourself together. You’ve let your perp get away, now it’s up to you to catch the son of a bitch. Bring in local plod. Good night, Carl, and good hunting. We’ll follow up in the morning.”

Carl felt a pain in his chest. He and Assad were on their own. With fuck all to go on.

“Here is Chief Superintendent Damgaard’s private number,” said Assad. All Carl had to do now was press the right keys on his mobile.

He listened to the phone ringing at the other end, feeling the pain in his chest again. No, for Chrissake. Not now!

“Damgaard here. I’m not available right now. Please leave a message,” said the voicemail.

Carl snapped the phone shut angrily. Wasn’t a chief super supposed to be available 24/7?

He gave a sigh. They would have to make do with the local lot once they turned up. Maybe one of them might even know how to stop the tabloid circus before it got started. They’d have to, before every journalist on Sjælland got there. Two of the local vultures were already taking pictures at the back entrance. Jesus Christ! Rumor ran even faster than events themselves in this multimedia age. A hundred pairs of eyes had witnessed the incident and a hundred mobile phones had been on hand to preserve it for posterity. No wonder the scavengers were already on the scene.

He nodded to the two local detectives who had been let through by uniformed police posted at reception.

“Carl Mørck.” He flashed them his ID. Both seemed to recognize the name but said nothing. He put them in the picture. It wasn’t easy.

“So we’re looking for a man who can disguise himself beyond recognition. We don’t know his name. And the only thing we’ve got to go on, basically, is that he drives a Mercedes. Not much, is it?” one of the detectives recapped. “Let’s get some prints off that bottle of mineral water he was drinking. Maybe that might give us something. What about your statement? Do you want us to take it now?”

Carl gave his colleague a pat on the shoulder. “My statement can wait. You know how to find me, so start with the staff here. I’ll have a word with his bowling mates.”