Death Sentence

40

I FOLLOWED THE coast past Vejby, Tisvildeleje and on towards the west. In Hundested I caught the ferry across the fjord to Rørvig. The crossing only took twenty minutes, but I felt I was leaving behind an entire continent.

I found a holiday homes letting agency near Rørvig Harbour. The agent was delighted to have a customer this late in the season, but surprised that I needed a place immediately and that I paid cash, both the deposit and eight weeks’ rental. I chose a house with a sea view and relatively isolated from its nearest neighbours. Even outside the tourist season it was expensive, but the location was crucial.

I gave my name as Karsten Venstrøm, the name of the murdering psychologist from In the Red Zone. The agent wanted to chat, but I ignored him and completed the paperwork as quickly as I could. Twenty minutes later I got into my car with the keys to the house in my pocket.

I shopped in a supermarket in Nykøbing and quickly filled a shopping trolley with enough groceries for a couple of weeks if I rationed my supplies carefully.

Then I drove to the house, which lay further out on Odden.

It was a large house, far bigger than I needed, with a Jacuzzi, a sauna and a huge conservatory with a wood burner. It slept twelve, but I chose the smallest bedroom, where I unpacked my clothes and made my bed. I closed the doors to the other rooms and switched on the heating in the rooms I intended to use. I put the computer and printer at the end of an enormous dining table that seated at least ten. I checked my computer would start and that I could print. Everything worked.

Apart from the conservatory, there was a dining room, a living room and a television room with a wooden floor, black leather furniture and a fireplace. The television was a large flat-screen model. I turned it on and checked the text TV news. There was nothing about Verner or Linda. I left the television on while I went back to the car. I was able to remove the registration plates with my hands and I threw them both into the boot. Then I drove the Corolla further into the grounds so it couldn’t be seen from the road.

Afterwards I walked around the area. Most of it was covered by heather or trees. The nearest house was over two hundred metres away and there were conifers in between to block the view across. The garden consisted of a lawn, decking and a shed containing garden furniture, a round barbecue, a lawnmower and other gardening tools.

Back in the house the heating from the electric radiators had kicked in, but I lit a fire in the television room all the same. I switched the television to the news channel and fetched a bottle of whisky I had bought in the supermarket. I reclined in the soft leather armchair, a glass of whisky in my hand and the bottle within reach, and spent the next couple of hours following the 24-hour news. The murders weren’t mentioned; they only covered trivialities such as the Danish government’s budget negotiations and silly contributions to the immigration debate.

I proposed several toasts. I drank to my health and erupted in laughter every time. I felt confident. Step one of my plan had succeeded and I had a sense of being in control, or at any rate no longer mystified. That night I allowed myself to relax – a day of rest before the great exertions in the weeks ahead.

I didn’t need my bed that night. I fell asleep in the armchair in front of the television and I awoke to images of suicide bombers in the Middle East. Dusty streets filled the screen with people running around, crying and screaming about injustice and revenge. In Denmark they were still discussing the budget.

I switched off the television and didn’t turn it on again.

After a modest breakfast of a heated roll and coffee, I sat down in front of the computer. It started up with a slow humming. The envelope with my handwriting lay on the table. I opened it and took out the photograph. It was one of five pictures I had taken in the photo booth at Nordhavn station. My hair was a tad messy, my beard a little denser and stragglier than usual, but it was the eyes that attracted attention. They were empty and seemed to look into a dark place.

I leaned the picture against the screen.

* * *

The computer had finished starting up. The desktop was an old photo of the cottage taken one summer’s day. It was almost like sitting in my study in the Tower and looking out at the garden.

I opened the word-processing program and created a new document. This was always a special occasion, a little bit like a painter starting a new painting on a brand-new canvas, but this time I didn’t relish it. I missed the feeling of freedom that normally inspires me at the sight of a blank page. This time I knew precisely what I would be writing and it terrified me.

I took my letter from the envelope and placed it next to the keyboard.

It was a brief synopsis, written with trembling hands. The desperation and the terror seeped out from the jagged handwriting.

I copied the title from the letter to see here of the document:

Death Sentence

by

Frank Føns

I saved the document with practised keystrokes, an acknowledgement that there was no way back.

I took a deep breath and began …

‘Until recently I had only killed people on paper.’