Redemption aka A Conspiracy of Faith

46

He wasn’t very old the first time he realized he could control his emotions to the extent that they could not be observed.

His life at home in the pastor’s residence accelerated the process. Living not in the light of God but in His shadow, emotions would often be misinterpreted. Joy was perceived as shallowness, vexation as antipathy and defiance. And each time he was misunderstood, he would be punished. For that reason, he kept his feelings to himself. It was the safest way.

It had since proved useful to him, when injustice dragged him down or disappointment struck.

So no one knew what was inside him.

And today, this was what saved him.

The sudden appearance of these two policemen had been a bombshell. But he had absorbed the shock and shown nothing.

He recognized them the moment they walked in. The two men he had seen talking to Isabel’s brother outside the lifts at the Rigshospital that afternoon as he had made his escape. An odd pair like them would always stick out a mile.

The question was whether they had recognized him.

He thought not. If they had, their questioning would have been more incisive. The detective he had spoken to would have looked at him in a completely different way.

He considered his options. There were two escape routes, if things came to a head. Round the back into the maintenance room, through the rear door, and then up the fire escape past that stupid chair with no legs that someone had placed there to make it clear there was no exit. Or he could take the direct route past the other policeman, the assistant. The toilets were over between the reception and the exit, so going that way would not initially arouse suspicion.

But the dark one would see him as soon as he went past the door to the gents. He would have to leave his car behind. As always, he had parked at a distance, in the parking structure over by the RO’s Torv shopping center. But if he went for the car, he wouldn’t have time to get out. They would cut him off and he would be trapped.

No, the second option wasn’t on. Leaving the car meant he would have to run for it. And while he knew the town well enough to be familiar with the shortcuts, he had no way of knowing if he was fast enough.

His best bet would be to divert their attention in some way. If he was to get away and remain in control of the situation, which was absolutely imperative, he would have to employ more radical means.

One thing was certain: he needed to put some distance between himself and these two policemen, who had been able to trace him this far. How the hell they had done so, he had no idea.

He was undoubtedly under suspicion. Why else would they be asking about the Mercedes, his singing, the name of the company he had invented? He was lucky he had remembered the number.

He had produced a false driver’s license, in the name he had been using for years in the club. Seemingly, they had accepted it at face value, so he wasn’t completely exposed yet.

The problem was, they quite literally had him cornered. Things he had just lied about could be easily checked, and soon he would run out of identities and bolt-holes in which to hide out. But his most immediate concern was that for the moment he was boxed in, with no way out without being seen.

He glanced across at Pope, who sat opposite the detective, chewing frenziedly on his gum and looking sheepish.

This man was the consummate sacrificial lamb. He had used him on several occasions as his role model. A man like Pope was the quintessence of nondescript. Of what to look like if you didn’t want to be noticed. Ordinary, like himself. In fact, they resembled each other a lot in many ways. Same-shaped face, same height, stature, and weight. Affable-looking, both of them. Credible in appearance, even rather dull. Men who bothered to take care of their looks without ever going over the top. It was from Pope he had got the whole idea of making himself up so his eyes looked too close together and his eyebrows appeared to be joined. And a dab of powder on his cheeks made them look just as broad as Pope’s.

They were features he had borrowed more than once.

But there was another thing about Pope, which he now intended to use against him.

Svend went to Thailand several times a year, and it wasn’t to enjoy the scenery.

The detective sent Pope to sit at the table next to his own. His face was as white as chalk, and if his expression was anything to go by, he had been dealt a body blow of some considerable force.

Now it was Birger’s turn, and then there would be only one left. There was no time to waste; the interviews would soon be over.

He went and sat down next to Pope. If the policeman had tried to stop him, he would have sat down anyway. He would have kicked up a fuss about police-state methods. It would have come to an argument, and he would have casually walked away and out of the door with the message that they could contact him at home if they wanted anything more from him. He had given up his civil registration number, so it wouldn’t be hard to find his address if they needed to question him again.

This, too, was an escape route. They couldn’t just arrest him with nothing to go on. And it seemed obvious to him that concrete evidence was the one thing they lacked. Even if a lot had changed in this country of theirs, the police still didn’t go around arresting people unless they were on solid ground, and Isabel had most certainly not yet been able to provide them with any substantial reason to charge him.

That time would come, inevitably so. But not yet.

He had seen the condition Isabel was in.

No, they had no proof of anything. No corpse, no knowledge of his boathouse. Soon, the fjord would swallow up his crimes.

Ultimately, it was just a question of keeping his distance for a couple of weeks and then eliminating all traces.

Pope glared at him angrily. His fists were clenched, the muscles of his neck were taut, his breathing quick and heavy. All the right reactions, so very useful in the current situation. If this was done right, it would all be over in minutes.

“What did you tell him, you bastard?” Pope hissed as he sat down at the table.

“Nothing they didn’t know already, Svend,” he replied softly. “I can assure you, he seems to know everything. You’ve got a record from before, remember?”

He sensed the man’s breathing become more agitated.

“It’s your own fault, Svend. Pedophiles just aren’t popular these days,” he said, louder this time.

“I’m no pedophile. Is that what you told him?” Pope’s voice had risen a tone.

“He knows it all. They’ve traced you. They know you’ve got child porn stored on your computer.”

Pope’s knuckles were white.

“I don’t believe it. They can’t.” His words were controlled but louder than Pope would have liked. He glanced around.

It seemed to be working. The detective was looking their way, keeping an eye on them, just as he had anticipated. He was cunning. Most likely he had put them next to each other just to see what would happen. They were both under suspicion. That much was obvious.

He turned his head toward the bar and discovered that the dark-skinned assistant was just out of sight. So he was hidden from that angle.

“They know you don’t actually download that stuff from the Internet, Svend. But they do know you get it from your mates on a flash drive,” he said casually.

“That’s not true!”

“But that’s what he told me, Svend.”

“Why’s he asking you lot, if it’s all about me? Are you sure it’s me they’re after?” For a moment, he forgot to chew his gum. His jaw stood still.

“He’s probably questioned all sorts of people you know, Svend. Now he’s doing it here in public, to see how you react.”

Pope began to tremble. “I’ve got nothing to hide. It’s not like nobody else is doing the same. That’s how it is in Thailand. I’m not harming any of those kids. I just like to be with them, that’s all. There’s nothing sexual. Not when I’m with them.”

“Well, I know that, Svend. You told me that. The thing is, our detective here reckons you’re trafficking these kids. Says it’s all on your computer. Trafficking and exchanging kiddie porn. Didn’t he mention that to you?” He frowned. “Would there be any truth in that, Svend? You’re always so busy on those trips. You’ve said so yourself.”

“He thinks I’m trafficking?” Svend realized his voice was too loud and glanced around again before continuing in a quieter tone. “Is that why he asked if I was good at filling in forms and the like? And how I could afford to travel so much on a disability pension? That’s something you put in his head, René. You know perfectly well I’m not on a disability pension. But that’s what he said you’d told him. I had to put him straight. My money’s from the business I sold off, you know that.”

“Don’t look, but he’s looking our way now. If I were you, Svend, I’d get up nice and easy and head for the door. I doubt they’ll stop you.”

He reached into his pocket and unfolded the knife, keeping it discreetly in his hand.

“Once you get home, destroy everything. Anything that might compromise you, all right? Word of advice from a friend, that’s all. Names, contacts, old plane tickets, the lot. Are you with me? Go home and do it now. Just get up and go. Do it now, otherwise they’re going to put you away, Svend. You know what they do to people like you in prison, don’t you?”

The man they called Pope glared at him, his eyes widening for a moment before becoming calm. Then he pushed back his chair and stood up. He had got the message.

He got up, too, reaching out as though to shake hands. He curled his fingers around the knife, palm facing down, the blade turned inward toward himself.

Pope considered him cautiously for a moment, then smiled. All his reservations seemed to vanish at once. He was a pitiful individual, with desires he was unable to control. A religious man who struggled against shame and who bore the disapprobation of the Catholic Church upon his shoulders. And here was his friend, standing in front of him with his hand outstretched. He meant him well.

He made his move at the instant Pope reached out to shake his hand, pressing the shaft of the knife into the man’s palm, prompting Pope to take hold of the weapon in a reflex. And then he jerked the bewildered man’s hand toward him in a sudden lurch that caught him just above the hip, a flesh wound, but clean. Not much pain, but it would bleed and look serious enough.

“Hey, what are you doing? Look out, he’s got a knife!” he cried and pulled Pope’s hand toward him again. The two wounds were perfect. He was already bleeding through his polo shirt.

He saw the policeman leap to his feet, his chair falling backward. Everyone at their end of the room turned toward them.

He shoved Pope away from him. The man staggered sideways, staring at the blood on his hands. He was in shock. It had all happened so fast. He was clueless.

“Run, you fucking murderer,” he hissed, clutching at his side.

And then Pope turned on his heel in panic, knocking over a couple of tables as he fled toward the lanes.

He clearly knew the place like the back of his hand. He was heading for the maintenance room and the rear exit.

“Look out, he’s got a knife!” he shouted again, and saw everyone step aside as the man came running.

He watched as Pope leaped across lane 19, the little dark guy from the police setting off in pursuit like a predator after its prey. It was an uneven match.

And then he stepped forward and picked up a bowling ball from the rack.

As the detective’s assistant caught up with him at the end of the lane, Pope began to slash at the air in front of him like a madman. Something inside him had snapped. But the policeman dived at his legs, and the two of them went headlong into the gutter between the last two lanes.

The detective was already halfway toward them, but the bowling ball the team’s best player sent hurtling down the far lane was faster.

There was an audible crack as it struck Pope in the temple. Like an unopened bag of potato chips crushed underfoot.

The knife slipped out of Pope’s hand onto the floor.

All eyes moved from the inert figure to the man they all seemed instinctively to know had delivered the strike. A couple of them, at least, also knew why he now sank to his knees, clutching his side.

It was all so perfectly executed.

The detective seemed genuinely shaken when he eventually came over to where he had flopped down on a chair.

“This is serious,” he said. “Svend won’t survive, as far as I can see. His skull’s smashed. If I were you, I’d say a prayer and hope the paramedics do a good job.”

He looked toward the far lane where ambulance crew were clustered around the injured Pope. Say a prayer, the policeman had said. But that was the last thing he was going to do.

A paramedic emptied Svend’s pockets and handed the contents to the detective’s Arab assistant. These two were thorough. They would call for assistance now and start going through the information. Checking civil registration numbers, his own as well as Pope’s. Scrutinizing alibis. Calling up a hair salon he had never visited. Before long, he would be under renewed suspicion. The time in between was all he had.

The detective at his side stood frowning, his thoughts already churning. And then he looked him straight in the face.

“The man you might just have killed has kidnapped two children. It’s possible he’s already murdered them. But if they’re still alive, they’re going to die of thirst and hunger if we don’t get to them first. In a moment, we’re going to go over and search his house. Maybe you can help us in that respect. Would you have any idea whether he owns a cabin, a weekend retreat, or anything similar in a remote location? A place with a boathouse?”

He managed to disguise his astonishment. How did they know there was a boathouse? How the hell could they possibly know?

“Sorry,” he said, his voice controlled. He looked over at the figure on the floor. “I’d like to help, but I’ve no idea.”

The detective shook his head. “Circumstances notwithstanding, there’ll be charges against you for this. Just so you know.”

He nodded deliberately. Why protest against something so obvious? He wanted to seem cooperative. Maybe they would ease up a bit.

The assistant came over, shaking his head.

“Perhaps you are stupid?” he said incredulously, looking him straight in the eye. “This situation was under control. Why did you throw that bowling ball? Do you realize what you have done?”

He raised his bloodied hands by way of explanation. “The man had lost his mind,” he said. “I thought he was going to stab you.”

He clutched at his side again and winced, so they could see how much pain he was in.

And then he sent the assistant an injured, angry look.

“You ought to be grateful I’ve such a good aim,” he said.

The two policemen conferred for a moment.

“Local police will be here in a minute. They’ll take your statement,” the detective said. “We’ll make sure someone has a look at those wounds of yours. There’s already another ambulance on its way. Just stay calm, it’ll help check the bleeding. It doesn’t look that bad, if you ask me.”

He nodded and withdrew a couple of steps.

Time for the next move.

An announcement came over the PA system. Tournament canceled, due to unforeseen circumstances.

He glanced across at his teammates, who stared emptily into space, almost oblivious to police instructions to stay put.

They had their work cut out now, the police. Things had got out of hand. Most likely they would be tied up with reports all night.

He stood up and walked calmly along the far wall toward the paramedics at the end of lane 20.

Nodding briefly as though in acknowledgment of their efforts, he ducked down and picked up the knife, glancing back and slipping through the narrow passage that led into the maintenance room in one inconspicuous, seamless movement.

Less than twenty seconds later he was up the fire escape and outside in the parking area, hurrying away toward the parking structure by RO’s Torv.

He swung the Mercedes out onto Københavnsvej, just as the blue lights of the ambulance came into view farther down the road.

Three sets of lights and he was gone.