Redemption aka A Conspiracy of Faith

24

They made an odd couple as they stood there in Carl’s office, Yrsa with her bloodred lips and Assad, his face so belligerently stubbled that a hug from the man would be tantamount to attempted murder.

Assad was looking highly dissatisfied. Carl couldn’t recall him ever radiating as much disapproval as now.

“It cannot be right what Yrsa is saying! Can we not bring this Tryggve to Copenhagen, Carl? What about the report?”

Carl blinked. He still had in his mind’s eye the image of Mona opening the door into her bedroom, making him rather distracted to say the least. He hadn’t been able to think of anything else all morning. Tryggve and the world’s insanity would have to wait until he was ready.

“Sorry, what did you say?” Carl stretched in his chair. It had been ages since his body had felt this drained. “Tryggve? No, he’s still in Blekinge. I asked him to come to Copenhagen, even offered him a lift, but he wasn’t up to it, he said, and I couldn’t force him. He lives in Sweden, Assad, remember? If he won’t come of his own accord, we’re not going to drag him here without the help of the Swedish police, and it’s early days for that, wouldn’t you say?”

He anticipated a nod from Assad, but it was not forthcoming. “I’ll write a report to send up to Marcus, OK? Then we’ll have to see. Apart from that, I don’t really know how to proceed just at the moment. We’re talking about a thirteen-year-old case that’s never been investigated. It’s up to Marcus whose desk he drops it on.”

Assad frowned, Yrsa likewise. Was Department A going to run off with the honors, after all the work they’d put in? Was that really what he was saying?

Assad glanced at his watch. “We should go upstairs right away and get it sorted. Jacobsen comes in early on Mondays.”

“OK, Assad.” Carl straightened up. “But I want a word first.”

He looked at Yrsa, bouncing on the balls of her feet, full of anticipation as to what might now be revealed.

“That’s me and Assad alone, Yrsa. In private.”

“Oh, I get it,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes. “Men’s talk.” And then she turned on her heel and left them in a haze of her perfume.

He fixed his gaze on Assad, forcing his eyebrows almost to the bridge of his nose, hoping that this might be enough to make his assistant come clean. Instead, Assad peered at him solicitously, as though at any moment he might offer Carl a glass of something for heartburn.

“I was over at your place yesterday, Assad. Heimdalsgade, number sixty-two. You weren’t there.”

A tiny furrow appeared in Assad’s cheek, only to miraculously transform into a cheerful dimple. “What a shame, Carl. You should have called me first.”

“I did, Assad, but there was no answer.”

“It would have been nice, Carl. Some other time, perhaps. Yes?”

“But that’d be somewhere else, wouldn’t it?”

Assad nodded, then lit up. “You mean we should meet somewhere in town? Yes, that would be nice, too.”

“I’d want you to bring your wife along, Assad. I’ve been looking forward to meeting her. And your daughters.”

A pained expression passed fleetingly across Assad’s face, as though his wife was the last person on earth he wanted to drag out in public.

“I had a little chat with some people there at Heimdalsgade, Assad.”

The pained look returned, and Assad narrowed his eyes in puzzlement.

“You don’t live there at all, do you? In fact, you haven’t lived there for quite a while. And as for your family, they’ve never lived there, have they? So tell me, Assad, where do you live?”

Assad threw up his arms. “It’s a very small flat, Carl. There was too little room for us.”

“Shouldn’t you have informed me of a change of address in that case? And given up the lease on the place?”

Assad looked pensive. “You are right, Carl. I will do so right away.”

“So where do you live, exactly?”

“We have rented a house. Housing is cheap now, Carl. Many people have two places on their hands. The property market, you know.”

“All right, Assad, I understand. But where are you living? I need an address.”

Assad’s head dropped. “OK, Carl. We are renting the place on a fiddle. Otherwise it would be too expensive. Can we not keep the other place on as a postal address?”

“Where, Assad?”

“In Holte, Carl. A small house only, on Kongevejen. But will you please call beforehand, Carl? My wife does not care for people turning up all of a sudden.”

Carl nodded. He would return to all this another day. “One more thing. Why would your neighbors from Heimdalsgade say you were Shiite? Didn’t you tell me you were from Syria?”

Assad thrust out his fleshy lower lip. “Yes, I did, Carl. And what about it?”

“Are there Shiites in Syria, Assad?”

The man’s bushy eyebrows relocated halfway up his forehead. “You know, Carl,” he smiled, “Shiites are everywhere.”

Half an hour later, they stood in the briefing room in the company of fifteen Monday-morning miseries, with Lars Bjørn and homicide chief Marcus Jacobsen at the center.

No one was here for fun, that much was obvious.

Jacobsen related to the meeting what Carl had reported. This was procedure in Department A. Questions could be posed along the way.

“Tryggve Holt, brother of the murdered Poul Holt, has informed Carl Mørck that their kidnapper, Poul’s killer, was a man known to the family,” Jacobsen said, some way into his briefing. “For a time, our man had frequented prayer meetings held by the boys’ father, Martin Holt, for local members of the Jehovah’s Witnesses. It seems everyone had taken it for granted that he would enter the congregation.”

“Have we got any photos of this man?” asked Bente Hansen, a chief inspector and formerly one of Carl’s close colleagues.

Deputy Lars Bjørn shook his head. “I’m afraid not, but we do have both a description and a name: Freddy Brink. Presumably false. Department Q already checked it out and no match came up. Our Swedish colleagues in Karlshamn are sending a police artist over to Tryggve Holt, so we’ll have to wait and see what they come up with.”

Marcus Jacobsen stood at the whiteboard, scribbling keywords.

“So he kidnaps the two boys on the sixteenth of February 1996. That’s a Friday, the same day Poul had taken his younger brother Tryggve with him to the College of Engineering in Ballerup where he studied. This Freddy Brink draws up alongside them in a light-blue van, laughing about what a coincidence it was for them to run into each other so far from Græsted. He offers them a lift home. Unfortunately, Tryggve is unable to provide a closer description of the vehicle, other than it being rounded at the front and square at the back.

“The boys climb into the front, and after a while he pulls in at a secluded lay-by and incapacitates them by means of electric shock. We don’t know how, but presumably he’ll have used some kind of stun gun. The boys are then thrown into the back and a cloth is pressed into their faces, most likely soaked in chloroform or ether.”

“Can I just say at this point that Tryggve Holt wasn’t entirely sure about how things actually proceeded here,” Carl interrupted. “He was only half-conscious because of the electric shock, and subsequently his brother wasn’t able to tell him much on account of the tape he was gagged with.”

“Indeed,” Jacobsen went on. “But I’m right in thinking, am I not, that Poul gave his younger brother the impression they had driven for approximately an hour, though of course we shouldn’t rule out the possibility that this might be incorrect? Poul suffered from some kind of autism, and his grip on reality may not always have been firm, despite his rather exceptional intelligence.”

“Asperger’s syndrome, perhaps? I’m thinking of the wording of his message, and the fact that he made a point of noting the exact date, even in the terrible situation they were in. Isn’t that kind of typical?” Bente Hansen asked, pen to paper.

“Maybe it is, yes.” The homicide chief nodded. “Having reached their destination, the boys were left in a boathouse, which smelled strongly of tar and rotting seaweed. The space was rather confined, with only room enough for a man to stoop rather than stand upright. Probably intended for storing canoes or kayaks rather than rowing boats or sailing boats. And there they were held for four, perhaps five days until Poul was murdered. Exactly how much time elapsed is uncertain. We have to bear in mind that Tryggve was only thirteen at the time and very afraid. As such, he spent much of the time sleeping.”

“Any landmarks to go on?” asked Peter Vestervig, one of the guys from Viggo’s unit.

“None,” Jacobsen replied. “The boys were blindfolded when they were led into the boathouse. However, while they saw nothing outside, Tryggve does say he heard a kind of deep rumbling sound that could have come from wind turbines. They heard it often, though not always as loud. Most likely that would have to do with the wind direction and other meteorological factors.”

He fixed his gaze on his empty cigarette packet on the table. He’d got to the point now where it was all he needed to reenergize himself. Good for him.

“We know,” he went on, “that this boathouse was situated in the shallows, presumably built on stilts, since Tryggve tells us that the water lapped beneath the planks of the floor. The entrance would seem to have been raised about half a meter or so off the ground, meaning that a person would have to literally crawl into the low-ceilinged space inside. Tryggve himself believed it to have been made for canoes or kayaks because of the paddles that were still kept there. And he thought the place might have been constructed from some other kind of wood than would normally be used in the Scandinavian tradition. He remembered it as being very pale in color and rather different in terms of grain, but we’ll know more about that later. Laursen, our old friend from Forensics, discovered a splinter lodged in the paper on which Poul Holt wrote his message, apparently from a sliver of wood Poul used as a pen. That’s with the experts at the moment, but it may be able to tell us what kind of wood the boathouse was made of.”

“How was Poul killed?” one of the men at the back asked.

“Tryggve doesn’t know. He had a canvas bag over his head when it took place. He heard some commotion, and when the bag was removed, his brother was gone.”

“How does he know he was murdered, then?” the man persisted.

Marcus inhaled deeply. “The sound of it was more than enough for him to be sure.”

“In what way?”

“Groans, thrashing about, a dull blow, and then nothing.”

“A blunt instrument?”

“Possibly, yes. Would you like to take it from here, Carl?”

All eyes were on him now. This was a gesture on the part of the homicide chief, though hardly one that would be unanimously applauded. In the opinion of most of those present, Carl would do best to get his arse out of there and disappear into some far-off corner where he belonged, preferably on some other continent.

They’d had a bellyful of him over the years.

But Carl wasn’t bothered. From the epicenter of his pituitary gland, hormonal aftershocks continued to ripple through his body following his ecstatic escapades of the night before. These sweet sensations, judging by the miserable faces now gawping in his direction, were his privilege alone.

He cleared his throat. “After his brother was killed, Tryggve was given instructions as to what he was to tell his parents: that Poul was dead, and that the man would not hesitate to kill again should they ever confide to anyone what had happened.”

He caught Bente Hansen’s gaze. She was the only person in the room who appeared to react in any way. He nodded to her. She’d always been all right, had Bente.

“This must have been a terribly traumatic experience for a thirteen-year-old boy,” Carl went on, addressing her directly. “Later, when Tryggve came home again, he was told the killer had been in touch with the parents prior to Poul being killed and had demanded a million in ransom. Money that was actually paid out.”

“You mean they paid?” Bente Hansen asked, astonished. “Would that be before or after the murder?”

“Before, as far as we know.”

“I’m not getting this at all, Carl. Can you explain in a few words?” said Vestervig. It was rare in these parts for anyone to admit there was something they didn’t grasp, so fair dues to him.

“OK. The family knew what the killer looked like, because he’d been at their meetings. Most likely they’d be able to identify him, as well as the vehicle and a whole lot more besides. He needed to make sure they wouldn’t go to the police, and the method he chose was simple and gruesome.”

One or two of those present leaned back against the wall, their thoughts probably darting back to other cases already piled up on their desks. The bikers and the immigrant gangs were using their balls for brains at the moment. The day before, there had been yet another shooting in Nørrebro, the third in a week, so the guys in the department had plenty to be getting on with as it was. Now it had got to the stage where even the ambulances preferred to stay away from the area. The threat was there all the time. Several of the homicide officers had personally invested in lightweight bulletproof vests, and even here in the briefing room, one or two already had them on under their sweatshirts.

Up to a point, Carl could well understand their skepticism. Who cared about a message in a bottle from 1996 with so much else going on? But wasn’t all that their own fault, in a way? More than half of those present had probably voted for the very parties who were now sending the country headlong into the shit with their police reform and failed integration policies. Yes, it was their own fucking fault. Carl wondered whether this thought ever occurred to them when they were out on duty in the middle of the night, while their wives lay dreaming of a man who could snuggle up and keep them warm.

“Our kidnapper selects a family with a large number of children,” Carl went on, searching around the room for faces worth addressing. “A family who in many ways exists in isolation from the rest of society. A family whose habits are deeply entrenched and whose way of life is strictly constrained. In this case, a wealthy family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. Not fabulously rich, by any means, but wealthy enough. Our man selects two of the children who in one way or another enjoy some particular status within the family. He kidnaps them both, and then when the ransom is paid he murders one of them. Now the family knows what he’s capable of. He threatens them, says he’ll kill another one without warning if he ever suspects they’ve gone to the police or their Church, or if they should try to track him down in any way. Then he returns the second child to the family. They’re a million down, but the rest of the flock are still alive. And they keep their mouths shut, because they’re afraid he’ll come back, and because they want their lives to be as normal as possible again.”

“But a child gone forever!” Bente Hansen exclaimed. “What about the people around them? Surely someone would notice that one of the children wasn’t there anymore?”

“Correct. Someone must have noticed. But in such a strict community, not many would be likely to react if they were told the child had been sent away on religious grounds, even if that sort of decision is usually up to some kind of council. An explanation that the child had been ostracized would be highly plausible in many religious communities. In fact, a good many of them simply forbid contact of any kind with ostracized members, and for that reason alone no one would ever try. In that respect, the community displays complete solidarity. After his murder, the family declared Poul Holt ostracized. The story was, they sent him away to sort out his attitude. And that was that, no questions asked.”

“But what about outside the community? Someone must have wondered, surely?”

“You’d think so, certainly. But often these people don’t have contact with anyone outside the community. That’s what’s so fiendish about his choice of victims. In this case, Poul’s tutor did get in touch with the family, but she ran into a brick wall. You can’t force a student back on to a course if he’s decided to leave, can you?”

The room was silent. They’d got the picture.

“All right, we know what you’re all thinking, and so are we.” Deputy Lars Bjørn looked around at the faces. As always, he tried to look more important than he was. “A never-reported crime of such a serious nature, in a community as insular as this, means it may well have happened more than once.”

“It’s sick,” said one of the new guys.

“That’s Police HQ for you,” came the rejoinder from Vestervig, though clearly he was sorry he’d spoken when almost decapitated by a glare from Jacobsen.

“I should stress that we cannot draw any dramatic conclusions for the time being,” said the homicide chief. “So we shan’t be talking to the press until we’ve got a clearer picture. Understood?”

Everyone nodded, Assad in particular.

“What subsequently occurred within the family serves only to underline the kind of grip the killer had on them,” Jacobsen continued. “Carl?”

“According to Tryggve Holt, the family relocated to Lund in Sweden only a week after his release. After that, members of the family were instructed never to mention Poul’s name again.”

“That can’t have been easy for his younger brother,” Bente Hansen commented.

Carl pictured Tryggve’s face and could only agree.

“The family’s paranoia about the killer’s threat became plain whenever they heard anyone speak Danish. They moved on from Skåne to Blekinge, with two further relocations before settling at their present address in Hallabro. But everyone in the family received clear instructions never to let anyone speaking Danish into the house, and never to involve themselves with anyone outside their religious community.”

“And Tryggve protested?” Bente Hansen asked.

“Indeed he did, and for two reasons. Firstly, he wouldn’t stop talking about Poul. He loved his brother dearly and had got himself believing in some roundabout way that Poul had given up his life for him. And secondly, because he fell desperately in love with a girl who wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness.”

“So then he was ostracized,” Lars Bjørn added, some seconds having elapsed since he had last heard the sound of his own exasperating voice.

“Exactly. Tryggve was ostracized.” Carl picked up the thread again. “He’s been on the outside for three years now. He moved a few kilometers down the road, absorbed himself in his relationship with the girl he had met, and took on a job as a service assistant at a timber outlet in Belganet. Neither his family nor other members of the local congregation ever spoke to him, even though his job was close to the family home. In fact, they’ve only spoken once, after I got in touch with the family. And on that occasion, the father did everything he could to impress upon Tryggve that he should keep his mouth shut. Which he did, until the moment I showed him the message his brother had sent in the bottle. That knocked him for six. Or rather, it sent him flying back into the real world, you might say.”

“Did the family ever hear from the killer again after the kidnapping?” someone else asked.

Carl shook his head. “No, and I don’t think they ever will, either.”

“Why not?”

“Thirteen years have passed now. My guess is he’s got other things to attend to.”

Silence descended again. The only sound to be heard was Lis’s relentless chatter out front. Someone had to man the phones.

“Is there anything at all to indicate there might be other cases similar to this one, Carl? Have you looked into that?”

Carl sent a grateful glance in the direction of Bente Hansen. She was the only one in the room he hadn’t had any altercations with over the years and probably the only person in the department who never needed to assert herself. She was one of the lads, no two ways about it. “I’ve got Assad and Yrsa-that’s Rose’s temp-contacting support groups for apostates from all the various sects. If we’re lucky, that might give us some information about kids who have been ostracized or who have simply left their congregations of their own accord. It’s not much to go on, but the communities themselves are only going to stonewall us if we approach them directly.”

A couple of the guys glanced at Assad, who looked like he had just got out of bed, even if he did have his day clothes on.

“Maybe this might be best left to professionals, people who know what they’re doing?” one of them suggested.

Carl halted proceedings. “Who said that?”

One of the guys stepped forward. Pasgård, his name was, a hard case. Good at his job but the sort who shoved his way to the front to be interviewed whenever there was a TV camera around. Probably saw himself running the place in a few years. Someone should make sure he never got a look-in.

Carl narrowed his eyes. “OK, smart-arse, maybe you’d like to share with us your exceptional knowledge about religious sects and similar communities in Denmark who might be at particular risk of being targeted by a man such as the one who murdered Poul Holt? Would you care to pick out a couple for us now, while we’re here? Let’s say five, to be getting on with?”

Pasgård made noises, but Jacobsen’s wry smile put him under pressure.

“Hmm!” He gazed around the room. “Jehovah’s Witnesses. The Baptists aren’t a sect, I suppose, but then there’s the Moonies…Scientology…the Satanists and…the Father House.” He gave Carl a triumphant look, then nodded smugly around the room.

Carl pretended to be impressed. “OK, Pasgård, you’re right in saying that the Baptists aren’t a sect, but then again neither are the Satanists, unless you’re thinking specifically of the Church of Satan. So you’re still one short. Any offers?”

The guy’s mouth twisted pensively. The great world religions flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed. Carl could almost see the names forming on his silent lips. Then he finally came up with an answer, to sporadic applause: “The Children of God.”

Carl, too, applauded, albeit briefly. “Well done, Pasgård, we’ll bury the hatchet here. There are a lot more sects, religious movements, and free churches in this country than you’d think, and the majority of them aren’t exactly household names.” He turned to Assad: “Are they, Assad?”

The little man shook his head. “No, a person must do his homework first.”

“Have you done yours?”

“Not quite finished yet, but I can mention a couple more if that would be relevant?” Assad glanced across at the homicide chief, who nodded.

“Well, in that case one could name the Quakers, the Martinus Society, the Pentecostalists, Sathya Sai Baba, the Mother Church, the Evangelists, the House of Christ, the UFO cosmologists, the Theosophists, Hare Krishna, Transcendental Meditation, the Shamanists, the Emin Foundation, the Guardians of Morality, Ananda Marga, the Jes Bertelsen movement, the disciples of Brahma Kumaris, the Fourth Way, the Word of Life, Osho, New Age, arguably the Church of the Transfiguration, the New Pagans, In the Master’s Light, the Golden Circle, and perhaps also the Inner Mission.” He took a deep breath, replenishing his empty lungs.

This time, there was no applause. The message that expertise was multifaceted had sunk in.

“Thank you, Assad.” Carl gave a slight smile. “As I was saying, religious communities are many and varied. And a large number of them worship either a leader or a community in such a way that they automatically turn in on themselves after a while and become closed units. Given the right conditions, the pickings are rich indeed for a psychopath such as Poul Holt’s killer.”

The chief stepped forward. “You’ve now been filled in on this murder case. A case outside the jurisdiction of our own district, though close enough. We’ll leave things at that for the time being and allow Carl and his assistants to proceed.” He turned toward Carl. “Any further assistance you might need, you come to me.”

Jacobsen turned to Pasgård, whose indifferent eyelids were already drooping over his frigid eyes. “And to you, Pasgård, I’d like to say that I find your enthusiasm exemplary. I’m glad you consider the department to be sufficiently well equipped to take on the case, but we on the third floor must keep a focus on those we are already investigating. Quite a job in itself, wouldn’t you say?”

The idiot was forced to nod. Anything else would have made him look even more stupid.

“However, since you so strongly believe the case would be better off with us rather than Department Q, perhaps we should accord it some attention. I’d say we could release one man. And that, Pasgård, would be you, since you’re so eager.”

Carl felt his jaw drop, the air compress in his lungs. Were they really going to have to work with this moron?

A single look was sufficient for Marcus Jacobsen to catch on to the dilemma. “I understand a fish scale was found on the paper on which the message was written. So Pasgård, if you would make sure we know what kind of fish we’re dealing with, as well as where the species might be found within a one-hour radius of Ballerup?”

He ignored Carl’s startled expression. “And one more thing, Pasgård. Bear in mind the location may be in the vicinity of wind turbines or something that makes a similar kind of noise, and that whatever the source of that noise might be, it had to have been there in 1996. Understand?”

Carl heaved a sigh of relief. These were the kinds of jobs he gladly farmed out to the likes of Pasgård.

“Yeah, but I haven’t got time,” Pasgård protested. “Jørgen and I have got doorbells to ring out in Sundby.”

Jacobsen glanced across at the hulk skulking at the opposite end of the room. Jørgen nodded. It was true.

“Well, Jørgen will just have to get by on his own for a couple of days,” said Jacobsen. “Right, Jørgen?”

The big guy gave a shrug. He wasn’t happy. The family waiting desperately for their son’s attackers to be brought to justice probably wouldn’t have been, either.

Jacobsen turned to Pasgård. “Two days, that ought to be enough, wouldn’t you say?”

The homicide chief had made his point.

If you’re going to piss on someone, make sure the wind’s behind you.