A Conspiracy of Faith (6 page)

“They’re all pissheads in Scotland,” muttered Carl.

“There’s a pretty useless DNA profile here. And some ultraviolet photos. They’ve done their best to preserve the letter. And look, here’s their reconstruction of the wording. Some of it can actually be read.”

Carl looked at the photocopy and immediately regretted his hasty caricature of the Scottish population. Comparing the original letter with the attempt at reconstruction, the results were impressive indeed.

He skimmed through the reconstructed wording. People have always been fascinated by the idea of sending a message in a bottle that might end up on the other side of the world, perhaps leading to new and unexpected adventures.

But that wasn’t the case here. This was deadly serious. Nothing to do with boyish pranks, or a project by Cub Scouts on some exciting field trip. No blue skies and harmony here. The letter was almost certainly what it seemed to be.

A desperate cry for help.

The moment he left
her, he left behind his day-to-day life. He drove the twenty kilometers or so from Roskilde to the secluded farm-laborer’s cottage that lay almost midway between their home and the house by the fjord. Reversed the van out of the barn and then parked the Mercedes inside. Locked the barn door, took a quick shower, and dyed his hair, changed his clothes and stood in front of the mirror for ten minutes getting ready. He found what he needed in the cupboards, then went outside with his bags to the light-blue Peugeot Partner he used on his trips. An undistinguished vehicle, neither too big nor too small, its mud-spattered number plates not noticeably obliterated at first sight and yet still almost illegible. It was anonymous, and registered in the name he’d used when purchasing the cottage. It suited his purpose.

By the time he reached this stage, he was always thoroughly prepared. Research on the Internet, and in the registers to which he had collected access codes over the years, had yielded the information he required on potential victims. He was flush with cash, using large-denomination notes to pay at petrol stations and toll bridges, always looking away from the cameras, always keeping his distance if anything untoward seemed to be in the air.

This time, his hunting ground was mid-Jutland, a region in which the concentration of religious sects was high. A couple of years had passed since he had last struck there. Whatever else one might say, he spread death with the utmost care and attention.

For some time he had conducted observations, though as a rule only for a couple of days at a time. On the first occasion, he had stayed with a woman in Haderslev, then with another in a small place called Lønne. The risk of being recognized in the Viborg area, so far away, was minuscule.

His choice was among five families. Two were Jehovah’s Witnesses, one was Evangelist, one was with the Guardians of Morality, and the fifth with the Mother Church. As things stood, he inclined toward the latter.

He arrived in Viborg at about eight in the evening, too early by half for what he was intending, especially in a town of this size, but it was better to err on the side of caution.

His criteria for selecting the bars in which he found the women who would put him up were always the same. The place mustn’t be too small. It mustn’t lie in an area in which everyone knew one another. It mustn’t have too many regulars. And it mustn’t be such a dive that no single woman of a certain standard between the ages of thirty-five and fifty-five would go there.

The first place on his tour, Julle’s Bar, was too cramped and gloomy, all wooden kitsch and one-armed bandits. The next place was better. There was a small dance floor, and the clientele were a decent mix, with the exception of a gay patron who immediately planted himself on the adjacent bar stool at a distance measurable only in millimeters. If he found a woman there, the guy would almost certainly remember him, despite his polite rejection.

He found what he was looking for at the fifth attempt. The signs above the bar counter seemed to confirm it:
The quiet ones are the wild ones, The Terminal—your home from home
, and perhaps in particular
Best boobs in town are here
all struck the right tone.

The Terminal, tucked away in the street called Gravene, closed early at eleven o’clock, but people were well in the mood on Hancock Høker ale and local rock music. He felt sure he’d get off with someone before closing.

He picked out a woman, not exactly young, sitting near the slot machines. She had been dancing on her own when he came in, her arms floating
free at her sides on the tiny dance floor. She was quite pretty, certainly no easy prey. A serious fisher in these waters. A woman who wanted a man she could trust, someone worth waking up next to for the rest of her life, not someone she reckoned on finding here. She was obviously just out with some girlfriends from work after a hard day’s slog.

Two of her giggly, well-proportioned colleagues stood swaying to the music in the smoking cabin; the rest had taken possession of a number of the establishment’s mismatched tables. Most likely the girls had been partying for some time already. At any rate, he felt fairly certain none of the others would be able to describe him in any detail in a couple of hours’ time.

He made eye contact with her, and after five minutes he asked her to dance. She was tipsy, not drunk. It was a good sign.

“You’re not from round here,” she said. “What are you doing in Viborg?”

Her scent was pleasant, her gaze steady and firm. It was easy to see what she wanted him to say. That he visited Viborg often. That he was fond of the place. That he was educated and single. So that’s what he said. Casually, without making an issue of it. He would say anything as long as it worked.

Two hours later, they were lying in her bed. She was satisfied and he was safe in the knowledge that he could stay with her for a couple of weeks without the usual questions: Did he really like her? Was he serious?

He was careful not to build up her expectations. He played coy and mysterious, keeping her guessing as to what depths of personality his nonchalance concealed.

He awoke at half past five the next morning as planned. Got dressed, rummaged around discreetly in her drawers and cupboards, finding out about her before she began to stir. Divorced, as he already knew. No children. Probably a decent little office job in the local authority that just as likely sapped her of all her energy. She was fifty-two years old and at this point in her life more than ready for adventure.

Before placing the tray of coffee and toast on the bed beside her, he drew back the curtains a chink so that she could catch his smile and all his freshness.

Afterward, she cuddled up close to him. Tender and submissive, the dimples of her cheeks now deeper than before. She stroked his face and was about to kiss his scar when he lifted his chin and asked: “Should I check into the Hotel Palads, or would you like me to come back here tonight?”

The answer was a formality. She snuggled affectionately closer and told him where she kept the key. And then he sauntered out to the van and drove away from his newfound residential bliss.

The family he had selected would be able to pay the usual million-kroner ransom he demanded. They might need to sell off some stocks, though it was certainly not the best time to do so, but apart from that they were well consolidated financially. Obviously, the recession had made it harder to commit even reasonably lucrative crime, but as long as his victims were selected with prudence there would always be a way. He was certain this family possessed both the ability and the will to meet his demands, and to do so with discretion.

He had been observing them for some time. He had visited their church and had spoken in confidence with the parents after prayer meetings. He knew how long they had been members of their community, how they had made their money, how many children they had and what they were called, and in broad outline the patterns of their daily life.

The family lived outside Frederiks, twenty minutes southwest of Viborg. Five children aged between ten and eighteen. All still living at home, all active members of the Mother Church. The two eldest attended the gymnasium school in Viborg; their siblings were taught at home by their mother, a former teacher of the Tvind schools in her midforties, who for want of a better life had turned to God. It was she who wore the trousers at home. She who steered the troops and their religion. Her husband was
twenty years her senior and one of the area’s wealthiest businessmen. Though he donated half his income to the Mother Church, as all members were obliged to, there was plenty left over. A business such as his, hiring out agricultural machinery and equipment to local farmers, was never in jeopardy.

The corn kept growing even when the banks went down the plughole.

The only drawback about this particular family was that the second son, who seemed otherwise to be an excellent choice of victim, had begun attending karate lessons. Not that there was any reason to be nervous about any physical threat this slight young man might pose, but it might upset the timing.

And timing was everything, once things got ugly.

Apart from that, this second son and his middle sister, the fourth child of the family, had all the characteristics required for his mission to be successful. They were enterprising, the best-looking of the siblings, and also the most dominant. Almost certainly the apples of their mother’s eye. Good churchgoers but also rather unruly. The kind who ended up either as high priests or expelled from the Church altogether. Believers, and yet indomitably self-possessed. It was the perfect combination.

A bit like he had once been himself, perhaps.

He parked the van between the trees of the windbreak and sat for a long time looking through the binoculars, observing the children running around in the garden beside the farmhouse during their breaks from home schooling. The girl he had selected seemed to be up to something in a corner beneath some trees. Something not intended to be seen by the others. For some time she remained occupied, kneeling in the tall grass. This confirmed to him what a good choice she was.

Whatever she was doing, her mother and the Church would not approve, he thought to himself with a nod of acknowledgment. God always puts the best of his flock to the test, and twelve-year-old Magdalena, this girl soon to become a young woman, was no exception.

He watched for another hour or two, reclining inside the van, keeping his eye on the farmhouse that nestled in the bend of the road at Stanghede. Through the binoculars he could clearly see a pattern emerging in the girl’s behavior. Every time the children were given a break, she would seek her own company in her corner of the garden, and when her mother called them in for their next lesson, she would cover up whatever it was she had been occupied with.

All things considered, being an almost grown-up girl in a family that had devoted itself to the Mother Church entailed no small amount of deference. Dance, music, printed matter issuing from sources other than the Church, alcohol, social intercourse with individuals outside the community, pets, television, the Internet—all these things were forbidden, and punishment for consistent disobedience was harsh: ostracism from both the family and the Church.

He drove away before the boys came home, satisfied with his choice of family. Now he would examine the father’s company accounts and personal tax returns one last time before resuming his observations the next morning.

Soon, there would be no turning back, and he was content at the thought.