Three Dog Night (43 page)

Peter closed his eyes. Perhaps he had been wrong about Cato after all. He rewound to the conversation with Grimme and his suspicions regarding Miriam returned. But she wouldn't betray him, would she? After all, they were friends.

He shook his head in an attempt to dismiss her words, but two lingered: boy scout.

He yanked the wheel, reversed the car and drove out of the forest.

T
HE PAIN WAS
keeping her alive. As long as she could feel it, she was still here.

They had chained her up again and thrown a quilt over her. Her skin felt flayed like an animal's. It was as if someone had exposed all her muscles, tendons, bones and neural paths so that they lay bleeding, accessible to anyone who felt like touching them.

They had removed the blindfold and the tape from her mouth. She knew what that meant. She wouldn't get out of here alive. Not now she had given them the coordinates. She had held out for as long as she could, but the branding had changed everything. She could no longer resist. Not that it mattered any more. She was going to die, she knew that.

Felix tried sitting up on the mattress. She was thirsty, and she was cold and shivering, while the wound on her thigh radiated a feverish heat up into her body. The temperature in the room was still at freezing point. She could see her own breath in the air.

‘Water. Give me some water.'

Her voice had lost its strength. It was the voice of a little girl.

She heard a sound. An animal? It might be a cat. Or a mouse or a rat. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness and she thought she was probably in an outhouse of some sort. Possibly a boathouse. She could make out ropes and netting around her. There was also the kind of tub builders used to mix cement. She couldn't see a boat, but it was difficult to get a sense of how big the room really was. She was in one corner. Behind her, the wall was cold and there were crates on both sides. She thought they might be fish crates.

‘Water,' she pleaded.

She heard footsteps outside. The door was unlocked and opened. She hadn't seen their faces clearly because it was always dark inside, but she had sensed them and their outlines, and she had seen her death in their eyes.

The smaller of the two men came in. She knew that from the way he moved. He wasn't as heavy as the other one. But when he knelt down beside her there was something in his eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

He pulled the quilt away. She was naked underneath it.

‘Water.'

She was whispering now. He nodded.

‘Of course. I'll get some for you.'

She wasn't fooled by his courtesy. She knew what lay behind it. And yet she was pathetically grateful and could have kissed him when he returned with a mug of water for her to drink. All the while he stroked her hair; then her skin. His hand moved across her breasts and her shoulders.

‘You're so smooth,' he said. ‘Nice and smooth. Your skin is so interesting.'

His hands were on her face. He forced up her chin. He felt her neck.

‘I mustn't,' he muttered. ‘You mustn't make me do it.'

She froze with terror as his fingers explored her body. There was no lust in his gaze, only curiosity. He pinched a nipple and tugged her breast. Squeezing it. First tentatively; then harder. He tilted his head to one side. She saw his other hand move. The gleam of metal. A small knife.

‘No!'

She tried to retreat, but the wall stopped her, cold and hostile. He unlocked the shackles around her wrists.

‘Shh. Be quiet. Now you can hug me.'

He spoke as though he was a teacher telling a pupil to behave. He held her breast again.

‘If you promise to sit still, it won't hurt as much. You don't want to be chained up again, do you? That's not very nice at all.'

She placed a hand on his shoulder and suppressed her tears as best she could, but even so her chest started heaving. He shook his head, irritated. His fingers stroked up her thigh. Found the brand and caressed it. White pain shot through her.

‘Mmm. Skin,' he mumbled. ‘Soft.'

His hand moved across her stomach. Fingers pressed into her belly button. She wanted to throw up.

‘Your muscles are good,' he whispered. ‘They're right under the skin. They're wrapped around each other. Not like the other one.'

‘The other one?'

Her teeth were chattering. The words were forced out.

‘She wasn't as slim as you.'

Tora, she thought.

His hands wandered back to her chest. To her breast. He squeezed and pulled it. She whimpered.

‘Shh! Quiet.'

Her stomach contracted. She was going to be sick and turned her face to the side. But nothing came out except bile, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth as it trickled down her chin.

He didn't notice.

‘Put your arms around me,' he said.

She forced herself to be a statue. A plaster cast figure, a terrified woman sitting and staring her fate in the eye. Terror drained her of thought and emotion.

‘Now!'

She automatically did as she was told. And then came the pain: as sharp as a needle, yet all-embracing, causing her brain to stop functioning – it registered the pain, but nothing else. Pain upon pain. She threw both arms in the air, but then let them fall on to his shoulders again. There was no way she could resist. She didn't have the strength or, for that matter, the will.

He smiled. She saw it through her tears and the mist that had settled over her eyes. He held something up and studied it. A small, blood-stained bud. He looked at her.

‘Is it true what they say that it's very sensitive?'

He stared at her other breast, fascinated. She held up a hand. Almighty God. Help me.

She nodded as best she could. Again he looked at the nipple in his hand. Then he pressed it carefully in between his lips. Sucked it. Chewed it. Spat it into his hand.

She covered both breasts with her hands. Blood was pouring from one of them. It was sticky and trickled down her stomach into her groin. He followed the flow of blood with his eyes, ran a finger through it, lovingly, tenderly.

‘You're so soft.'

He mumbled something else. He was talking to himself. Discussing something she couldn't hear. His fingers felt their way down her body. Her mind whirled, trying to find ways to distract him. Perhaps he was susceptible after all – if she guided him.

‘I'm so cold,' she said. ‘Please can I have another blanket?'

He looked at her. He nodded.

‘Blanket.'

‘It's very cold in here.'

She was shivering all over now. She thought about Tora in the freezing water. Faceless Tora. She thought about his knife.

‘Cold,' he said in a toneless voice.

He laid her back on the mattress and hovered over her. She was too scared to close her eyes. She had to see what was he was doing, to know where the pain would come from next. He lowered his head over hers and sniffed her. He sniffed her ear and her throat and further down. He found her other breast. She felt his tongue on her skin. He still showed no signs of lust. Only curiosity, like an inquisitive, dangerous child. He stopped at her remaining nipple. Then he closed his lips around it. Sucked it. Bit it. This time the pain was far more prolonged. She pushed him away with all the strength she had; she screamed. He sat back and looked at her in surprise.

‘Shhhh.'

He got up with his eyes on her. There was blood around his mouth. He wiped it on his sleeve. His eyes were blank, without any trace of anger. He was finished with her, for now. She knew he was when he turned his back on her and walked away. She looked down at herself. Blood was pouring out. She pressed the blanket against her wounds and lay down and cried. Then she heard the noise she had heard before he came in. A rustle. Someone breathing, perhaps?

Shortly afterwards she heard the voice, a feeble whisper: ‘Help me!'

T
HE PUB WAS
situated on a corner. The sign above the door was shaped like a dartboard, with a dart in the middle and
Bull's Eye
inscribed in looped, red letters.

The curtains were drawn; the door was locked. There were no A-boards outside, but it was only one o'clock in the afternoon. Peter peered through the stained-glass window in the door. At first he couldn't see anything. Then he heard chairs and tables scraping and saw a man washing the floor – a slim, young man. Probably an employee. He tapped on the window, but the man didn't hear him. He went behind the building and found a rear entrance. Here the door was open and an old blue Daihatsu was parked in the yard. He gained access to the pub through a back room filled with beer crates and kegs. He cleared his throat and the young man with the mop jerked upright as if someone had held a revolver to his head.

‘Sorry if I frightened you.'

‘Who are you?'

The young man looked nervous, as though he was used to being shouted at for the slightest thing. Beads of sweat had gathered on his forehead.

‘Where will I find Red?'

The man slapped the mop into the bucket and sloshed it back on the floor without wringing it out first. There was soapy water everywhere.

‘I don't know where he is. I guess he'll be here later.'

He surveyed Peter askance. Then he froze.

‘Hey! What happened to your shoulder? You're bleeding.'

‘It's nothing. Where does he live?'

The man pushed the mop around under a table.

‘He's bought one of the new flats down by the river.'

Peter asked him for the number.

‘Who wants to know?'

The man narrowed his eyes. He spoke the line as if he'd heard it in an old spy movie and then practised it in front of a mirror. Peter backed out.

‘Just an old friend. Don't worry, I'll find him.'

Peter swore softly under his breath. What was it about him that meant he couldn't frighten information out of people, but ended up shooting them?

He had been hoping that Grimme could have told him where Red lived, but it was clear he hadn't wanted to know any details. And so Peter had lost valuable time. Now he had to find the place in some other way because Felix was bound to be where Red was. He might already be too late, but he didn't dare think about that.

His shoulder was hurting and every now and then his eyes would swim. He had to concentrate to stop himself passing out. Changing gear hurt, but he managed to drive towards the centre of Grenå and park near the railway station. From there he walked over the river and across the railway to the new buildings. Black box-like structures were scattered around the area, some still under construction. ‘River Promenade, Grenå. Quality homes in a unique location', said a sign which also announced the name of the construction company and the other contractors involved in the project.

Many of the flats were still unfinished. The financial crisis might have put a stop to the project. Or perhaps it was just the winter which had literally frozen the works. They'd had snow on the ground since November now. An icy winter and a financial crisis: jobs in the construction industry were in short supply.

It was still snowing and at times a gust of wind would send a flurry of sleet into his face. His kidneys also hurt and he couldn't walk upright. Sharp shafts of ice pricked his skin and the snow found paths under his clothing and down his collar to his neck.

The flats looked on to the black river flowing past, with ducks bobbing up and down on the surface. The River Grenå never froze. The current was too strong, and the ducks were quickly carried down towards the harbour.

He saw evidence of human activity here and there: a cleared garden path, a bicycle, curtains or flowers in a window, tools in a garage left open, snow blowing inside. In front of every building he noted the framework for decking, reminiscent of parquet flooring. But the work was unfinished and only the foundation of the terraces and a few floorboards could be seen under a thick layer of ice. He couldn't see any cars. If Red did live in one of the flats, he was unlikely to be at home.

After surveying the area, he decided that only three flats looked occupied. He walked up to the first and could see from the sign on the door that the owner was called A. Bartholdy. He continued to the next one. There was no door sign yet, but there was a frozen-looking double buggy outside. He knew Christian Røjel had no grandchildren because he had often heard him complain about this very issue. Red lived alone.

One flat remained. It had a wonderful location, only a stone's throw from the river. There was a garage under each flat. He circled around it trying to form an impression. Black blinds hung in the windows. He walked up the steps to the front door. No name sign. He rang the bell, but there was no reply and the door was locked. He walked down the steps and stood for a moment wondering what to do. Then he opened the garage door. It opened easily and revealed an almost empty space. But not entirely. There was a work table on two trestles and tools hanging in rows on the wall. Some boxes had been stacked on top of each other and there was an old tub filled with empty bottles. In a corner some sacks had been thrown across something he couldn't see. There was also a coil of rope. He stepped further into the darkness. He heard a sound. Something was hiding under the sacks. Whimpering sounds.

‘Felix?'

Images flashed through his brain: Felix with her hands tied behind her back, savaged, just like Tora. Felix dying from exposure. Felix with blank eyes, her body defeated for ever.

‘Is that you, Felix?'

Carefully he raised one of the sacks. Then he staggered back as a shadow shot past him. A cat. He looked under the sacks. In a beer crate full of old newspapers lay six tiny, freezing kittens.

K
IR WAS CLEANING.
Scrubbing floors, dusting cupboards, removing stains and scouring the sink made her feel better. It mitigated the disappointment and humiliation after the slap. The redness on her cheek had gone, but the act itself would never go away, she knew that. It wasn't the first time her father had slapped her. Far from it. But it was the first time she had felt as if the intimate world around her had disappeared beneath her feet, as if there was nothing of it left.