Three Dog Night (47 page)

‘Drop the gun or I'll cut your throat.'

He waved the pistol in the air. She saw his finger tighten on the trigger.

‘If you shoot, you're dead. Trust me. I've done this before.'

He dropped the gun and it skidded along the deck.

‘You bitch.'

She put all her strength into the blow. The butt of the knife struck the back of his head while she locked her arm around his neck. The boat swayed. She felt him go limp and collapse on to the deck, then she laid him on his stomach and quickly picked up the gun. She took two rolls of bandages from the First Aid box and tied his wrists together behind his back. He was starting to regain consciousness, but she pinioned the back of his knees and prevented any resistance by tying another roll of bandages around his ankles. He twisted in agony as she pressed her knees into him and held the gun to his head.

Half his face was squashed against the cold deck. She found some strong rope in a box under a bench and tied him up, properly this time.

It was only then that she let him go, and at that moment she heard the coastguard's siren as the vessel surfed on the black waves towards her.

She was still holding the gun with Red at her feet when Mark and two other men boarded the boat. For a moment she felt numb; there was no sorrow or joy. Then she snapped out of it.

‘I was in the middle of washing the floor.'

She could hear the irritation in her own voice.

‘That was lucky,' Mark said. ‘I found the glove in the garage. They train you well over in Kongsøre.'

She tried to smile.

‘I think I learned that trick in a Donald Duck comic.'

‘If you say so.'

The policeman knelt down by Red's side and grabbed his arm. Red groaned. His eyelids kept opening and shutting.

‘Where's Felix Gomez? I presume she told you the location.'

Red mumbled something.

‘Where is she?' Mark repeated.

But Red simply stared at him blankly.

P
ETER DROVE PAST
the property a couple of times. Then he parked the van in Nørrevangsvej near Konkylien's closest neighbour, quite a distance from the drive leading to the house. The neighbour's house was on the bend and barricaded behind a tall fence with warnings of vicious guard dogs, while Konkylien was open to all and sundry on a hilltop.

He sat in the van for a moment assessing the situation. Then he took Boxer Nose's gun, left the more cumbersome rifle behind and set out on foot, hoping that his white shearling jacket would blend in with the snow and that he would get some protection from the dark night sky.

There was a small, hand-painted wooden sign bearing the house name, Konkylien, at the bottom of the drive. The letters were in white, and a white conch had been painted rather clumsily to represent a full stop. The drive was long, about two hundred metres, he guessed, and straight. The main building was white with an old, black Eternit roof, patchily covered with snow. Several tiles were missing on the outhouse. The property must have a beautiful view of Nederskov, and it would have been easy to keep a lookout for trespassers.

He squinted to see if anything was happening, but he saw nothing. There was no movement. Perhaps there wasn't even life there any more. Or maybe the place was fortified to the hilt. It was impossible to know how many helpers Red had. A small army might have been waiting for intruders. Perhaps, at this moment, a sniper was watching him, to protect the valuable prize that Felix was for them.

He took out his mobile and walked with it in one hand while the fingers of his other hand tapped a message. Then he scrolled through his contacts. He hated the thought of it, but he could see no other way out. He found Mark Bille Hansen's number and for the second time in his life he did something he had sworn he wouldn't do. He called the police.

‘Yes?'

Mark Bille sounded out of breath.

‘It's Peter.'

‘Where are you? We're looking for you.'

‘I'm sure you are. Listen …'

He explained himself as quickly as he could.

‘Stay where you are,' Mark said. ‘We've got Red. We're on our way to the harbour and we can be with you in half an hour.'

Peter looked up at Konkylien. The house looked menacing and sombre. He couldn't keep Felix waiting. Half an hour in hell was a long time.

‘I'm going in,' he said after a pause. ‘Get here as quickly as you can.'

‘He hung up.'

Mark stared at his mobile and then across the sea to where the coastguard was dutifully following them. Red had been transferred to their vessel and only Mark and Kir were in Hannibal's motorboat.

‘Konkylien. What kind of place is that?'

Kir steered the boat towards the harbour from the wheelhouse, where they huddled from the cold.

She told him about Hannibal's property.

‘Where might he have hidden Felix?'

‘In the outhouse, I reckon.'

After a pause she added: ‘There's also a basement.'

He nodded. They had found some warm clothing for her in the rescue vessel: overalls, a warm jacket, a woolly hat and gloves. They'd also found a pair of boots several sizes too big and a pair of socks. Her red curls sprang out from under the hat and the gap between her teeth showed when she spoke. Mark thought about what she had just done to Red and could hardly believe it was the same girl.

‘He said he was going in alone,' Mark said.

‘Can't you call for back-up?' she asked. ‘It'll take us some time to get there.'

‘They've all gone to Århus.'

He had called Anna Bagger, who said she would send back-up as quickly as she could, but she was in Lisbjerg Forest with the rest of her team. Grenå was currently unmanned.

‘We'll come as soon as we can, Mark.'

He cursed her roundly.

‘That's not good enough.'

‘You've got Kir,' she said. ‘We'll try and get there fast.'

He hung up and gritted his teeth. He looked at Kir.

‘Can't we go a little faster?'

‘It might capsize.'

He could feel the drag on the boat. It started jumping across the crests and swerving from side to side as Kir increased the speed to maximum.

Peter walked up the drive to Konkylien.

No lights were on. There was not a single sign of life. The house looked abandoned, like many other houses for sale in this remote area. They were the sort of places he might have bought and done up cheaply himself.

As he approached the property, he could see it more clearly. There was a main building with a low door, a cobblestone yard with a well in the middle, an old outhouse and a barn. The main house was white, but the paint was flaking badly. There was so much moss and weed growing on the roof it almost looked thatched. The roof of the outhouse sagged and looked as if it might cave in at any time. He felt for the gun in his pocket. It was good to have it. Even close up, the property seemed abandoned, but there could be all sorts hiding in the shadows. He might be walking to his death. One of Red's henchmen might be there.

He dismissed the thought and tried the main door. It was locked, so he walked around and saw what looked like a stable door. It consisted of two parts and looked home-made. With his Swiss Army knife, it didn't take him long to pick the lock.

He entered the dark house and was met by the unmistakable smell of cat pee and mildew. He didn't dare switch on the light, but groped his way around, now holding the gun in his hand and keeping the knife ready in his pocket. The ground floor was deserted. When he had established that, he found the stairs down to the basement. He turned on the light – it looked as if it was empty. Carefully, he walked down with one arm outstretched and his finger on the trigger. As he expected, there were only bare walls, crates of dusty diving equipment, coiled rope and old furniture too shabby to be used in the living room. No Felix.

‘Y
OUR BODY IS
so supple,'

He was back. His hand moved up her leg.

‘Just like the dog's.'

Felix didn't want to know what he meant.

‘I can dance,' she whispered. ‘I can dance for you, if you want.'

He kneaded her muscles as though wanting to expose them. She was still weak and had very little musculature left, but she had to pretend.

‘I can show you a dance.'

He tilted his head. His face was long and narrow and matched his body which, at first glance, might have appeared fragile. But he was strong and could handle her like a sack of potatoes. He looked at her. His eyes were without expression.

‘There's no music,' he said.

‘It doesn't matter. The music's in my head. Let me show you.'

She tried to stand up.

‘Oh, no. The chains …'

For a long time he stood, appearing to consider the situation. He stared at her, his gaze still glued to her body, she sensed. Then he took out the key, crouched down and loosened the chain around one of her ankles.

‘And the other one,' she begged.

He stared again. Then he shook his head.

‘Now dance.'

She got up. She would just have to do her best. He sat on the mattress like a spectator at a show. She evoked the music in her head and swayed back and forth to it while singing quietly. He continued to stare. She stretched out her arms and rotated until stopped by the shackle around her ankle. She stood on her tiptoes and went down on her knees, despite the pain shooting through her, almost fainting. But it worked. He dropped his guard and his eyes were half-closed now as his head rocked from side to side to the rhythm of her movements. She danced close to the wall of junk and he shifted on the mattress to be near the dance. She knelt at his side as part of the dance and hummed in a way that seemed to hypnotise him. She caressed his hair while her other hand grabbed the rim of the tub. Gyrating rhythmically over the tub, she saw her reflection in the melted snow. He moved nearer; his breathing was close to her neck, his hand was on her naked back and she forced herself not to shake him off.

She struck when he was most under her spell.

Using all her weight, she pushed his neck and head forward. The shackle around her ankle contorted her leg and the iron cut into her bone. She reached out to pull the tub closer. He spluttered and gurgled as she sat on him using every ounce of strength to keep his head under the water.

He panicked, waving his arms around wildly and howling when he briefly came up for air. Then she pushed him back down into what for him was a hell, the sum total of all his fears. But she had reached her limit and could stretch no further because of the ankle chain, and she had to let go.

‘Help me!'

But Anja had no strength left. She was lying quietly on the sacks, barely breathing. Felix tried in vain to keep her tormentor's head under the water. He struggled and flapped his arms and gurgled and spluttered, but she was losing her grip and was unable to maintain the pressure. Gasping for air, he finally got to his feet. He stood for a moment staring at her, his eyes wide, terror written all over his face. She was sure he would kill her now. Why didn't Anja help?

Then she heard a noise. Was that footsteps on the drive? Or a car?

He heard it, too. He turned his face towards the sound and stared at her again with his mouth open. Before, there had been no expression; now there was one of boundless hatred, as if she was a mistress who had humiliated and betrayed him.

Barely conscious, she sensed that he had turned on his heel and stumbled out of the darkness, sending the bottles on the cement floor clattering in all directions. Her legs gave way and she collapsed on the mattress. Again she felt the warmth of the sea close over her and heard Maria's voice.

P
ETER WALKED BEHIND
the house to avoid crossing the yard. He found himself at the back of the outhouse. There was a high window. He stood on tiptoes to peer inside, but the window was grimy and the light inside dim. Yet he saw a shadow move and heard a clatter. He threw caution to the wind and tapped on the window.

‘Felix!'

He heard a metallic clanking, then the sound of boots. Someone was running away. Almost simultaneously he heard a car pull into the yard and stop. Car doors opened and shut. Mark Bille and Kir, he hoped, and was about to shout out when he recognised Lily Klein's voice: ‘He ran across the field.'

This was followed by the sound of more people running.

He had to be quick. There was a low whimper coming from the outhouse. He drew himself up to his full height and hit the window with his elbow. It cracked at the second blow. The frame was rotten and the whole window fell in on itself with a crash. He climbed in, landing on his head and hit first his leg and then his injured shoulder as he fell. His entire body screamed in agony.

‘Felix!'

There was a stench – of urine and faeces, and something else. Human decay. Bodies on the verge of succumbing. He heard the whimpering again. Light was what he needed. He couldn't see anything clearly, so he used his mobile to find his way. His hands touched something soft. A blanket, a person. He couldn't hear any breathing. Nothing. He struggled to lift the human bundle in his arms, then staggered out of the outhouse, towards the back of the main building, where he opened the stable door. He found a sofa and turned on the light. The girl was whimpering quietly now. He stared at her.

‘Anja!'

She half-opened her eyes.

‘Felix?'

He shook her. ‘Where is she?'

Anja tried to say something, but couldn't. He limped back to the outhouse.

‘Felix! Felix, can you hear me?'

He held up the mobile to see and rummaged frantically around old crates and sacks and coils of rope. He crawled around on all fours, trying to cover the entire area. Then he felt something sticky. A whole puddle. He sniffed his hand. Blood. He threw aside everything he bumped into and finally his hand touched a mattress.