A Conspiracy of Faith (73 page)

“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.”

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.

“I would not wish to say it was nothing, if I may say so,” said Assad.

“Me neither,” Rose added.

The others laughed.

“How are you getting on now? OK?” Carl asked.

Mia took a deep breath and bit her lip for a moment. “I’d like to know how the two children are doing. Samuel and Magdalena, wasn’t that what they were called?”

Carl raised his eyebrows. “To be honest, there’s no real way of knowing. The two oldest, the boys, moved away from home. I think Samuel’s doing OK. As for Magdalena and her two sisters, the congregation took care of them, so I heard. Maybe it’s for the best, who knows. Losing both parents like that must be almost unbearable.”

Mia nodded. “I understand. My former husband caused a lot of suffering. If there’s anything I can do for the girl, I’d very much like to.” She tried to smile, only for more words to come instead. “Losing your parents is a terrible thing, of course. But for a mother to lose her child is unbearable, too.”

Marcus Jacobsen placed his hand on her arm. “We’re still working on that, Mia. The police are doing everything they can with the information you’ve given us. It’ll pay off, I’m certain of it. No one can keep a child hidden away in this country forever, believe me.”

Her head dropped as the word “forever” sank in. Carl would have put it differently.

The young man at Mia’s side now spoke. “We want you to know how grateful we are,” he said, his gaze fixed on Carl and Assad. “The uncertainty is tearing Mia apart, but that’s another matter.”

This poor couple. Why not just say it like it was? Four months had passed, and the boy still hadn’t been found. The proper resources hadn’t been allocated in the various systems, and now it was probably too late.

“We haven’t much to go on,” said Carl tentatively. “Your former husband’s sister is called Eva, that much we think we know. But what about
her surname? His, too, for that matter? It could be anything at all. We’re not even sure of his first name. In fact, we know precious little about your former husband or his past. All we know is that his and Eva’s father was a pastor somewhere. Eva wouldn’t be that uncommon a name for a clergyman’s daughter. We know she’s about forty years old, but apart from that, nothing. We’ve got Benjamin’s picture on display at every police station in the country, and my colleagues have informed the social authorities to be on the lookout. That’s where we are right now.”

She nodded, trying not to be disheartened by what Carl was saying.

Kenneth held a bunch of roses up in front of him and explained that Mia spent every day trawling the Internet and everywhere else for church newsletters or newspaper articles that might contain a picture of her former husband’s father. It had become a full-time activity, and if she ever found anything they would be the first to know.

And then he thrust the flowers toward Carl with their thanks.

After they had gone, Carl stood for a moment with the bouquet in his hand and a funny taste in his mouth. Forty bloodred roses, at least. He wished they were for someone else.

He shook his head. No way was he going to have them on his desk. But he wasn’t about to give them to Rose and Yrsa, either. There was no telling what the consequences might be.

Instead, he dumped the bouquet on the counter in front of Ms. Sørensen as they went by. “Thank you so much for holding the fort, Ms. Sørensen,” was all he said, leaving her in a flurry of confusion and inarticulate protest.