Redemption aka A Conspiracy of Faith

37

“Look what I’ve got here for you lot,” said Lis, handing Carl an enormous bunch of roses wrapped in cellophane.

Carl put down the phone. What the hell was this all about?

“Are you proposing to me, Lis? It’s about time you began to appreciate my qualities.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “They were sent to Department A, but Marcus thought you should have them.”

Carl frowned. “What for?”

“Oh, come off it, Carl. You know what for.”

He gave a shrug and shook his head.

“They found the last little finger bone with a groove in it. They went over the site of the blaze again and there it was in a pile of ashes.”

“So we get roses?” Carl scratched his neck. Maybe they’d been found in the ashes, too?

“No, that’s not the reason. Marcus’ll tell you all about it. The flowers are from Torben Christensen, the investigator from the insurance company. Our work on the arson cases saved them a pile of money today.”

She pinched his cheek like an aunt not knowing any more appropriate form of appreciation and waltzed back to where she’d come from.

Carl leaned sideways for a glimpse of her gorgeous backside.

“What is going on?” Assad inquired from the corridor. “We must leave in only a moment.”

Carl nodded and dialed the number of the homicide chief.

“I’m to ask from Assad how come we get roses?” he said, straight to the point, when Jacobsen answered.

There was a brief noise that might have been mistaken for an expression of glee. “Carl, we’ve interviewed the three owners of the firms that burned down, and we’re now in possession of three magnificent statements. You and your team were absolutely right. They were pressured into taking out high-interest loans and then, when they were unable to make the payments, the debt collectors turned nasty and demanded the entire sum. Intimidation, threats over the phone. Serious threats. The collectors became increasingly desperate, but what good was it going to do? There’s nowhere else for firms with liquidity problems to go these days to borrow money.”

“So what happened to the debt collectors?”

“We don’t know for sure, but our theory is they were simply bumped off on orders from higher up. The Serbian police have seen it all before. Big bonuses for those who collect and deliver on time, and good night to those who can’t.”

“Surely they could just have burned the places down, without having to kill their own men?”

“Well, another angle is that they send their less successful collectors to Scandinavia, since the market here is supposed to be easier to handle. Then when that turns out not to be the case, they make an example of them and grab some attention in Belgrade. There’s no bigger liability for a loan shark than a bad debt collector or someone who can’t be managed or trusted. A few killings here and there can work wonders for discipline.”

“Hmm. So they do away with their inefficient workers in Denmark. And if the perpetrators get caught, then at least they’ll be tried in a country with lenient sentencing. Is that it?”

He could almost see Jacobsen’s thumbs-up at the other end.

“Anyway, Carl,” said the chief, “what we’ve achieved today ensures that the insurance companies won’t have to make the full payout. We’re talking about some considerable amounts of money here, hence the roses. And who deserves them more than Department Q?”

This was probably not an easy admission.

“OK, so now you’ve got some hands idle,” said Carl. “Send them down here. I could use them.”

Something like a chuckle came from the other end. So Jacobsen had other plans. “Nice try, Carl. We’ve still a lot more work to do on it. Now we need to find those responsible. But I see your point. There’s the gang conflict still going on, so perhaps we should be diverting resources in that direction.”

Assad appeared in the doorway as Carl put down the phone. For once, he looked like he was beginning to anticipate the Danish climate. His down jacket was the thickest garment Carl had ever seen worn in March.

“I’m ready now,” said his assistant.

“Be with you in a sec,” Carl replied, dialing Brandur Isaksen’s number. Halmtorvet’s Icicle, they called him, with reference to his extraordinarily thinly apportioned charm. Isaksen was the man in the know at Station City, the police station at which Rose had been employed before she was sent to Department Q.

“Yes?” Isaksen said curtly when he answered the call.

Carl explained his business, and before he had even finished, the man at the other end was in hysterics.

“Rose? Priceless, she was. Not that I’d want to hazard a guess at what’s wrong with her. She was just odd, that’s all. Too much boozing, jumping into bed with all the young cadets from the police college. A wildcat with an insatiable appetite, do you know what I’m saying? Anyway, why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” said Carl, and hung up. Then he logged on to the Civil Registration System and typed an address into the search field: Sandalparken 19.

The result was unequivocal. Rose Marie Yrsa Knudsen, it read, along with a civil registration number.

Carl shook his head. All they needed now was for bloody Marie to turn up and they’d have the full house. Two versions of Rose was plenty to be getting on with.

“I can hardly believe this, Carl,” Assad said, peering over his shoulder.

“Get her in here, would you, Assad?”

“You will not confront her straight in her face, will you, Carl?”

“What? You must be joking. I’d rather climb into a bathtub with a bagful of cobras,” Carl replied. If they let on now that they knew Yrsa was Rose, there was no telling what might happen.

When Assad returned with Yrsa, she was already wrapped up in coat, mittens, scarf, and woolen hat. Standing before him now were two individuals who could each make a valiant challenge to the burka-clad in a competition to conceal the human body.

Carl glanced at the clock. End of the day. Yrsa was on her way home.

“You wouldn’t believe…!” She stopped abruptly on seeing the flowers Carl was holding out in front of him. “Where did you get them from? They’re lovely, they are!”

“They’re for Rose, from Assad and me,” Carl said, thrusting the whole bunch into her hands. “Tell her to get well, and that we hope she’ll soon be back. Say they’re roses for a rose. We’ve really thought about her a lot.”

Yrsa stiffened and stood quite still for a moment, seeming almost humble, though she was probably just overwhelmed.

And then they shut up shop for the day.

“Is she really ill then, Carl?” Assad asked as the traffic piled up on the Holbæk motorway.

Carl gave a shrug. He had seen a lot of things in his time, but the only case of dissociative identity disorder he knew about was the ten-second transformation of his own stepson from an amiable young lad short of a hundred kroner into a stroppy teenager who refused to tidy up his room.

“We’ll keep this to ourselves, Assad,” was all he said.

They sat in silence for the rest of the way, immersed in their own thoughts, until the sign for Tølløse appeared. A place best known for its railway station, a cider factory, and the pro cyclist who was kicked out of the Tour de France while wearing the yellow jersey.

“Just a little way along here,” said Assad, pointing down the main street, the absolute center of Tølløse and the vital artery of any small provincial town. Only here the blood seemed to have stopped pumping. Maybe the town’s inhabitants were clogged up in the bottleneck of Netto’s checkout line, or maybe they had all just moved away. At any rate, the place had seen livelier times.

“Opposite the factory site there,” said Assad, pointing to a redbrick house that exuded about as much life as an earthworm suicide in a winter field.

A diminutive woman with eyes even bigger than Assad’s opened the door. The instant she saw Assad’s stubbly face, she jumped back into the hall with a start and called for her husband to come. No doubt she had read tabloid stories about robberies in the home and thought she was about to become a victim.

“What do you want?” said the man. Clearly, no hospitality was in the offing. Not even ordinary politeness.

Carl reckoned his best bet was to pursue the taxman line and stuck his police ID back in his pocket.

“You have a son, Flemming Emil Madsen. According to our records, he hasn’t been paying his taxes. He’s not registered with the social authorities, or the educational authorities for that matter, so we thought it best to come and see him in person.”

Assad intervened. “You are a greengrocer, Mr. Madsen. Does Flemming work for you?”

Carl understood the tactics. Get the man into a corner from the start.

“Muslim, are you?” the man answered. It was a surprising utterance, an excellent counter. For once, Assad looked stumped.

“I think that would be a personal matter for my colleague,” said Carl.

“Not in my house, it wouldn’t,” the man replied and made to slam the door in their faces.

Carl produced his badge.

“Mr. el-Assad and I are trying to clear up a number of unsolved murders. If you so much as look at me sideways, I’m going to arrest you on the spot for the murder of your son Flemming five years ago. Are you following me?”

The man said nothing, though he was obviously shaken. Not the way a man unjustly accused would be, but like one who was as guilty as hell.

They stepped inside and were directed to sit at a brown mahogany table that would have been every family’s dream fifty years ago. There was no cloth on it, but an abundance of place mats.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” said the wife, fingering the crucifix that dangled from her neck.

Carl glanced around. At least three dozen framed photos of children of all ages were dotted about the place on various items of oak furniture. Children and grandchildren. Smiling individuals with big skies above their heads.

“These are your children, I take it?” Carl asked.

They nodded.

“And all of them emigrated?”

They nodded again. Words were seldom used here, Carl thought to himself.

“To Australia?” Assad inquired.

“Are you a Muslim?” the man asked again. He was sticking to his guns. Bloody cheek. Was he afraid that the sight of someone who subscribed to another faith might turn him into stone, or what?

“I am what God made me,” Assad answered him. “What about you? Would that be true for you, too?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was more used to that kind of conversation taking place on other people’s doorsteps than inside his own home.

“I asked if your children had emigrated to Australia?” Assad repeated.

The wife nodded. So her head was screwed on, after all.

“Here,” said Carl, and placed the police artist’s drawing of the kidnapper on the table in front of them.

“In the name of Jesus,” the wife breathed, making the sign of the cross on her chest. Her husband pursed his lips.

“We’ve never said a word to anyone,” he said curtly.

Carl fixed his gaze on him. “If you think we’re in cahoots with this man in any way, you’re mistaken. But we’re on to him. And you can help us catch him.”

The wife let out a gasp.

“I apologize if you find us insensitive,” said Carl. “We needed you to be honest with us as quickly as possible.” He jabbed at the drawing. “Are you able to confirm that this was the man who kidnapped two of your children, and that he killed Flemming after receiving a large ransom?”

The man paled visibly. All the strength he had drawn on over the years to keep himself afloat now seeped out of him. The strength to resist grief, to lie to his fellow believers, and to make a new life away from everything he knew. The strength to isolate himself, to say good-bye to the remaining children, and to carry on after taking the financial knock. And not least, the strength to live with the knowledge that the man who had murdered their beloved son remained at large and was watching them.

He let go of it all, in a house in Tølløse.

They sat quietly in the car for a while before Carl spoke.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as depleted as those two,” he said.

“It was very hard for them when they took out the photograph of Flemming from the drawer, I think. Do you really believe they had never looked at it since they lost him, Carl?” Assad asked, wriggling out of his down jacket, having finally realized it wasn’t that cold.

Carl shrugged. “Hard to tell, really. They certainly haven’t been willing to risk someone getting a whiff of how much they still loved the boy. Their story was that they kicked him out themselves.”

“A whiff? I am not sure of the meaning of this, Carl.”

“Get a whiff of something. Like a hunting dog getting a whiff of its prey.”

“Prey?”

“Never mind, Assad. These people kept their love for their son secret. No one else was to know. They could never tell who was a friend and who might be an enemy.”

Assad gazed for a moment out toward brown fields that would soon sprout with life. “How many times do you think he has done this, Carl?”

How the fuck was he supposed to answer that? There was no answer.

Assad scratched his dark cheeks. “We have to catch him now, Carl. Yes? We simply must.”

Carl clenched his teeth. Yes, they had to catch him now. The Tølløse couple had given them a new name. Birger Sloth was what he had called himself then. The police artist’s likeness had stood up for the third time. Martin Holt had been right. The eyes of the man they were looking for had been rather farther apart. Everything else-the mustache, the hair, the look in his eyes-were things they had to disregard. What they were looking for was a man whose features were sharp and yet somewhat indistinct at the same time. The only thing they could be a hundred percent certain about was that he had collected a ransom in the same place on two different occasions. A short stretch of railway between Sorø and Slagelse, and they already knew the spot. Martin Holt had described it in detail.

They could be there in twenty minutes, only now it was too dark. Bollocks.

It would be their first priority in the morning.

“What shall we do about our Yrsa and Rose?” Assad asked.

“Nothing. We’ll just try to live with it, that’s all.”

Assad nodded. “Most probably she is a camel with three humps,” he mused.

“A what?”

“This is what we say where I come from. Rather apart. Hard to ride, but funny to look at.”

“A three-humped camel. You might be on to something there, Assad. It sounds a lot better than schizophrenic, anyway.”

“Schizophrenic? Where I come from, this is what we say about the man who praises another while shitting on him with his arse.”

There he went again.