A Conspiracy of Faith (65 page)

The emotion she felt may have been no more apparent than a slight moisture in the corner of her eye, but it was there. Emotion at the thought of Benjamin. Her little boy, who would now have to live without her.

Benjamin, who would have to live with…him.

NO!
everything inside her screamed. But what was the use?

And yet the thought kept coming back, more and more insistent.
He
would be with Benjamin, and this thought would be the last thing on her mind when her heart finally succumbed.

She extended her fingers again. The nail of her middle digit found a shred, and she began to scrape, scratching with this one finger, until its nail broke. Her only tool denied her. And then she drifted into sleep, tormented by her realization.

The cries from outside came at the same time as the mobile again chimed in her back pocket. It sounded weaker now. Soon the battery would be spent. She knew the signs.

The voice belonged to Kenneth. Perhaps her husband was still in the house. Perhaps he would open the door. Perhaps Kenneth would know something was wrong. Perhaps…

Her fingers moved slightly. It was the only response she could muster.

But the front door did not open. The sounds of arguing never came. All she perceived was her mobile ringing, its tone becoming fainter. And then the lighter suddenly dislodged and came to rest against her thumb.

The slightest wrong movement and it would be lost to the darkness that surrounded her.

She tried to disregard Kenneth’s cries, to ignore the fact that the vibrations of the phone in her pocket were now growing weaker. And then, with the slightest twitch of a finger, the lighter lay in her hand.

Once she felt certain she had a proper hold, she twisted her wrist as far as she could. Perhaps only a centimeter, but enough to give her hope. Her ring finger and little finger were lifeless and numb, and yet she believed in her endeavor.

She pressed as hard as she could and heard the faint escape of gas as the valve opened. So very faint.

How could she ever press hard enough to make a spark?

She tried to channel all that remained of her strength into the extremity of her thumb. Into this last display of will to show the world how she had lived her final hours, and where she had died.

She pressed again. All the life inside her went into this one action. And like a shooting star in the night sky, the spark burst out in front of her in the darkness, igniting the gas and making everything bright.

She twisted her wrist the one free centimeter back toward the cardboard and allowed the flame to lick the sides of the packing case. Then she let go and watched the sliver of blue turn yellow and widen, wandering slowly upward and leaving behind it a blackened fan of soot for each centimeter’s advance. What for a moment had been aflame was then extinguished incrementally, like a trail of gunpowder leading nowhere.

After a moment, the weak flame reached the top of the box and died. Only a deep red glow remained. And then it, too, was gone.

She heard him call and knew it was over.

No more strength.

She closed her eyes and imagined Kenneth outside in front of the house. The brothers and sisters they could have given to Benjamin. A beautiful life.

She sniffed in the smell of smoke, and new images darted in her mind. Camps by the lake. Bonfires of Midsummer Eves in the company of older boys. The aromas of a farmers’ market in Vitrolles, the one time she and her brother had spent a camping holiday with their parents.

The smell of smoke seemed stronger now.

She opened her eyes to a yellow light dancing with blue above her.

And the next moment everything was in flames.

Burning.

She had heard that almost everyone who died in fires died from smoke inhalation, and that if a person wanted to save themselves they should crawl along the floor, underneath the smoke.

She wanted to die from smoke inhalation. It sounded like a merciful, painless death.

But the smoke was rising and she was unable to stand. The flames would consume her before the smoke. She would burn to death.

And then came the fear.

The final, definitive dread.

“There, Carl!” Assad indicated
a smooth-rendered, sienna-colored building facing out on to Københavnsvej in the process of being done up.

WE’RE OPEN—SORRY ABOUT THE MESS!
a banner read over the door. It didn’t look like an entrance.

“Turn down here toward the shopping center, and then to the right. We must go around the building site there,” instructed Assad, pointing in the direction of a dark, empty area amid new buildings.

They pulled onto a dimly lit car park next to the bowling alley and found a space. Carl got out and walked around. No fewer than three dark Mercedes were parked here, though none looked as if it had just been involved in an accident.

Carl wondered how long it might take to get a car repaired. Longer than this, surely? His thoughts darted to his service pistol, lying inside the gun locker at Police HQ. He probably ought to have brought it with him, but how could he have known when they left this morning? It had been a long and eventful day.

He looked up at the building.

Apart from a sign composed of a pair of enormous bowling pins, nothing at the rear of the pretentious building even remotely suggested the place might be a bowling alley.

The same was true when they went inside and found themselves in a stairwell filled with steel lockers. It was a bit like left luggage at a railway station. Otherwise, the walls were bare. An empty space with a couple of
doors and no indication of where they might lead. Stairs going down, done out in the national colors of Sweden. The place was utterly devoid of life.

“Let’s go downstairs into the basement,” Assad suggested.

THANK YOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM—HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN AT ROSKILDE BOWLING CENTER—SPORT, FUN, AND EXCITEMENT!
read a sign on the other side of the door.

Carl wondered if the last phrase was supposed to refer to bowling. To his mind, bowling was neither a sport nor fun nor exciting. It was more lukewarm beer, saggy arses, and indigestible food.

They went straight through to reception, where a man was on the phone amid a jumble of rules and regulations, bags of sweets, and reminders to display your parking permit.

Carl glanced around the place. The bar was packed. Bowling bags and duffel bags dumped all over. People gathered in animated clusters around the twenty-odd lanes. Men and women in shapeless trousers and a variety of polo shirts with club logos on them. It looked like a typical match night.

“We need to speak to a Lars Brande. Do you know him?” Carl asked when the man behind the counter had finished on the phone.

He gestured toward a group at the bar. “That’s him over there, with the glasses on his head. Just shout for Bumble, you’ll see.”

“Bumble?”

“Yeah, that’s what we call him.”

They went over, noting inquisitive eyes weighing up their conspicuous clothes and footwear, wondering what they wanted.

“Lars Brande? Or do you prefer Bumble?” Carl asked, extending a hand. “My name’s Carl Mørck, Copenhagen Police, Department Q. Mind if we have a word?”

Lars Brande smiled and shook hands. “Oh, right, I’d almost forgotten. One of our teammates just dropped a bombshell. Says he’s leaving us, just as we’ve got the district championships coming up. Bit distracted. Sorry about that.”

He gave the man next to him a thump on the back. Most likely the one who was letting them down.

“Are these your teammates?” Carl asked with a nod in the direction of the others.

“Roskilde’s finest,” Brande replied, thumbs aloft.

Carl gave Assad a look:
Stay here and keep a sharp eye on them, so no one does a runner.
That was the last thing they needed.

Lars Brande was a tall, sinewy man with a slender frame. His features distinguished him as a man whose work involved long hours sitting indoors, a watchmaker, perhaps, or maybe a dentist. But his skin was weathered and his hands broad and tanned. All in all, it was a rather confusing impression.

They went over to the rear wall and watched the bowling for a moment before Carl commenced.

“You spoke to my assistant, Rose Knudsen. I understand you identified a coincidence of names and that you found it quite amusing. The bowling ball on the key ring, too. I want you to know that this isn’t just some routine matter we’re dealing with. We’re investigating a very serious case of the greatest urgency, and everything you say may be taken down in evidence.”

Brande looked out of sorts. The glasses perched on top of his head seemed almost to sag into his hair.

“Am I under suspicion? What’s this about?” The man was clearly ill at ease with the situation. It felt odd, especially as Carl had in no way considered him a suspect. Why would he have been so accommodating with Rose if he had something to hide? No, it didn’t make sense.

“Under suspicion? Not at all. I’d just like to ask you some questions, if that’s OK?”

Brande glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s rather a bad time, to be honest. We’re on in twenty minutes, so normally we’d be getting ourselves together now. Can’t it wait until later? Not that I’m not curious, mind.”

“No can do, I’m afraid. Can we go over to the officials’ desk a minute?”

Brande looked puzzled but nodded all the same.

The tournament officials seemed just as bewildered, but when Carl produced his badge, they were immediately compliant.

Carl and Brande returned to the far wall, passing a number of tables as the message came over the speakers.

“Due to unforeseen circumstances, the order of play has now been revised,” one of the officials explained and proceeded to outline the changes.

Carl glanced toward the bar, where five pairs of eyes now stared in their direction. Five faces wearing baffled expressions, and behind them Assad, his gaze fixed on the backs of their necks with the keenness of a hyena.

One of these men was the man they were looking for. Carl was certain of it. As long as they remained here, the children would be safe. Provided they were still alive.

“How well do you know your teammates, exactly? I understand you’re the captain?”

Brande nodded and answered without returning Carl’s gaze. “We’ve been together since the center opened. Before that, we played in Rødovre, but this is more convenient. There were a couple more of us back then, but those of us who live in the Roskilde area decided to carry on here instead. So, yeah, I know them pretty well. Especially Beehive, the guy with the gold watch over there. He’s my brother, Jonas.”

Carl thought Lars Brande seemed nervous. Was he hiding something?

“Beehive and Bumble. Odd names,” said Carl. Perhaps a polite distraction would ease the tension. Right now, it was imperative that the man opened up as quickly as possible.

Brande gave what looked like a wry smile.

“Maybe. But Jonas and I are beekeepers, so it’s not that strange really,” he explained. “We’ve all got nicknames on the team. You know how it is.”

Carl nodded, even though he didn’t. “I notice you’re all rather tall. You’re not
all
related, are you?”

If they were, they would cover each other’s backs, come what may.

Brande smiled again. “No, only Jonas and me. But you’re right, we
are
above average height, all of us. Long arms make for a better swing, you see.” He laughed. “No, it’s pure coincidence, that’s all. Never really thought about it until now.”

“I’m going to ask for your civil registration numbers in a minute, the whole team. But before I do, would you happen to know if any of you has been in trouble with the police?”

Brande seemed genuinely astonished. Perhaps the gravity of the matter was only now dawning on him.

He took a deep breath. “We don’t know each other well enough to say,” he said. It was clearly not entirely true.

“Do any of you drive a Mercedes?”

He shook his head. “Not Jonas or me. I’ve no idea what the other lads have got, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”

Was he covering up for someone?