Disgrace (11 page)

He opened his eyes wide to sink back into reality. Typically it took a few minutes for him to get the frenzy of rage out of his bloodstream, but the erotic arousal always remained.

He put his hand to his crotch. His cock was hard again.

Shit! Why couldn’t he control these feelings? Why did it continue, on and on?

He locked the door to the adjacent suites, from which the voices of half of Denmark’s fashion barons and baronesses could be heard.

He inhaled sharply and sank slowly to his knees.

Then he folded his hands and let his head fall forward. Sometimes it simply felt necessary. ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ he whispered a couple of times. ‘Forgive me. For I cannot help myself.’

12

Ditlev Pram quickly updated Aalbæk on the situation, ignoring the fool’s complaints about late nights and lack of manpower. So long as they paid his price, he better just keep his trap shut.

Then he swivelled his office chair and nodded pleasantly at his trusted colleagues around the conference table.

‘Excuse me,’ he said in English. ‘I have a problem with an old aunt who’s always straying from home. This time of year, we obviously need to find her before nightfall.’

They smiled agreeably, understanding what he meant. Family comes first. That’s how it was where they came from, too.

‘Thank you for a good briefing.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m very pleased that this team has become a reality. Northern Europe’s best doctors congregated in one place – could one wish for anything more?’ He smacked his palms on the tabletop. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Will you begin, Stanislav?’

His head of plastic surgery nodded, flicking on the overhead projector. Stanislav showed them a man’s face on which lines had been drawn. ‘We will make incisions here, here and here,’ he said. He’d done the procedure before. Five times in Romania and twice in the Ukraine. In every case but one the feeling in the facial nerves had
returned startlingly fast. He made it sound uncomplicated. A facelift, he claimed, could now be done with just half the incisions doctors typically used.

‘Take a look here,’ he said, ‘right at the top of the sideburns. A triangular area is removed and the skin is pulled up and sewn together with only a few stitches. Simple and straightforward.’

At this point Ditlev’s hospital director interrupted. ‘We have submitted descriptions of the operation to the journals.’ He pulled out one American and three European journals. Not the most prestigious, but they were good enough. ‘It will be published before Christmas. We call the treatment “The Stanislav Facial Correction”.’

Ditlev nodded. There was bound to be a great deal of money in this, and they were smart, these people. Ultra-professional scalpel technicians. Each earned a salary equal to that of ten doctors in their homeland. It didn’t make them feel guilty, and in that way all those present were equals: Ditlev, who made money from their labour; and the doctors, who made money from everyone else. An unusually advantageous hierarchy, especially since he was the one at the top. And right now he was objectively calculating that one failed operation out of seven was completely unacceptable. Ditlev avoided unnecessary risk. His time at boarding school had taught him that. If you were headed into a shitty situation, you steered clear of it. For that reason he was about to reject the entire project and fire his director for having submitted the articles for publication without his approval, and it was for the same reason that, deep down, he couldn’t think of anything else but Torsten’s telephone call.

The intercom behind him beeped. He arched backwards to push the button. ‘Yes, Birgitte?’

‘Your wife is on her way.’

Ditlev glanced round at the others. The dressing-down would have to wait, and the secretary would have to put a stop to the articles.

‘Ask Thelma to stay where she is,’ he said. ‘I’m coming over. We’re finished here.’

A glass walkway snaked from the clinic a hundred yards across the landscape to the villa, so you could walk through the garden without getting your feet wet and still enjoy the view of the sea and the beech trees. He got the idea from the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art. But at his house, no art adorned the walls.

Thelma was prepared to make a big scene. Just the kind of thing he wouldn’t want others to be witness to in his office. Her eyes were full of hate.

‘I spoke to Lissan Hjorth,’ she said bitingly.

‘Hmm, that took a while. Weren’t you supposed to be with your sister in Aalborg by now?’

‘I didn’t go to Aalborg, I was in Gothenburg, and not with my sister. You shot her dog, Lissan says.’

‘What do you mean, “you”? I assure you, it was an accident. The dog was utterly unmanageable and ran in among the quarry. I’d warned Hjorth. What were you doing in Gothenburg, by the way?’

‘It was Torsten who shot the dog.’

‘Yes, it was Torsten, and he’s very sorry. Should we buy a new pup for Lissan? Is that what this is all about? Now tell me, what were you doing in Gothenburg?’

Shadows fell across her forehead. Only an unusually heated temperament was capable of creating wrinkles in her ridiculously tight facial skin, the result of five facelifts, but Thelma Pram succeeded. ‘You gave my apartment in Berlin away to that little nobody, Saxenholdt.
My
apartment, Ditlev.’ She aimed a finger at him. ‘That was your last hunt, do you hear me?’

He approached her. It was the only way he could get her to step back. ‘You never used that apartment anyway, did you? You couldn’t get your lover to go with you, could you?’ He smiled. ‘Aren’t you getting a little old for him, Thelma?’

She raised her head, admirably adept at taking insults. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re saying, you realize that? Did you forget to sic Aalbæk on me this time, since you don’t know who he is? Did you, Ditlev, since you don’t know who I was in Gothenburg with?’ Then she laughed.

Ditlev was stopped in his tracks by the unexpected question.

‘It’ll be an expensive divorce, Ditlev. You do bizarre things – the kind of things that will cost you when lawyers enter the picture. Your perverse games with Ulrik and the others. How long do you think I’ll keep them secret for nothing?’

He smiled. It was a bluff.

‘Don’t you think I know what’s on your mind right now, Ditlev?
She doesn’t dare
, you’re thinking.
She has it too good with me
. But no, Ditlev, I’ve grown away from you. I don’t care about you. You can rot in prison for all I care. And you’d have to do without your slaves down in the laundry in the meantime. Do you think you can handle that, Ditlev?’

He stared at her throat. He was well aware how hard he could strike. And he knew where.

Like a civet cat, she sensed it and retreated.

If he were going to strike, he’d have to do it from behind. No one was invincible.

‘You’re sick in the head, Ditlev,’ she said. ‘I’ve always known that. You used to be sick in a fun way, but not any more.’

‘Then get a lawyer, Thelma.’

Her smile was like Salome’s when she requested that Herod bring John the Baptist’s head on a platter.

‘And face Bent Krum on the other side of the table? No way, Ditlev. I’ve got other plans. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

Her hair was slipping out of her hairband. She thrust her head back and flashed her bare neck, showing him she wasn’t afraid of him. Mocking him.

‘You think I’m threatening you?’ There was fire in her eyes. ‘I’m not. When I’m ready, I’ll pack my clothes and leave. The man I’ve found is waiting for me. A mature man. You had no idea, did you, Ditlev? But he’s older than you. I know my appetites. A boy cannot satisfy them.’

‘I see. And who is he?’

She smiled haughtily. ‘Frank Helmond. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?’

Several thoughts collided in Ditlev’s head.

Kimmie, the police, Thelma, and now Frank Helmond.

Be careful what you’re getting involved in
, he told himself, and
considered for a moment going down to see which of the Filipinas was working the evening shift.

A new cloud of loathing sank over him. Frank Helmond, she’d said. How degrading! A chubby local politician. A member of the underclass. A complete nobody.

He searched for Helmond in Krak’s directory and found the address, even though he already knew it. Helmond wasn’t one to hide his light under a bushel, as was evident from the address. But that’s how the man was, and everyone knew it. Lived in a villa he couldn’t afford, in a neighbourhood where no one would ever dream of voting for his worthless party.

Ditlev went to his bookshelf, removed a thick volume and opened it. It was hollow inside, with just enough room for his small plastic bags of cocaine.

The first line blurred the image of Thelma’s pinched glare. The second line caused him to straighten his shoulders, look at the telephone and forget that the word ‘risk’ wasn’t in his dictionary. He simply wanted to put a stop to it. Why not do it the right way? Together with Ulrik. In the dark of night.

‘Shall we watch movies at your place?’ he asked, the very instant Ulrik picked up the receiver. He heard a contented sigh from the other end.

‘Do you mean that?’ Ulrik asked.

‘Are you by yourself?’

‘Yes. Damn it, Ditlev, are you serious?’ He was already excited.

It was going to be a brilliant evening.

They had seen the film countless times. Life wouldn’t have been the same without it.

The first time they’d watched
A Clockwork Orange
was at boarding school, at the beginning of their second year. A new teacher had misunderstood the school’s cultural diversity code and had shown the class both that film and another one called
If
, which was about a rebellion at an English boarding school. The larger theme had been British cinema from the sixties, which, it was believed, was very fitting for a school with British traditions. But no matter how interesting this teacher’s choice was, it was also utterly misguided, the school’s leadership decided after close scrutiny. The new teacher’s career was therefore brief.

The damage was already done, however, because Kimmie and the class’s newest pupil, Kristian Wolf, lapped up the films’ messages without qualm. Through them they discovered new possibilities for release and revenge.

Kristian was the one who took the lead. Since he was nearly two years older and completely unruly, the entire class looked up to him. He always carried a lot of cash with him, even though it was against school policy. He was always on the lookout, and with great care he selected Ditlev, Bjarne and Ulrik to be part of his gang. They were all alike in so many ways. They were outsiders, and they were filled with hatred for the school and any authority figure. Yes, that – and
A Clockwork Orange
– glued them together.

They found the film on video and watched it time after time on the sly in Kristian and Ulrik’s room. And as a result of this fascination they made a pact. They would be
just like the gang in the film. Indifferent to their surroundings. Constantly on the hunt for excitement and ways to transgress. Devil-may-care and merciless.

When they assaulted the boy who caught them smoking hash, everything suddenly came together. Only later did Torsten, with his usual flair for histrionics, suggest they wear masks and gloves.

Ditlev and Ulrik drove from Fredensborg with several lines of cocaine in their veins and the pedal to the metal. Dark sunglasses and long, cheap trench coats. Hats, gloves. Cold, clear heads. Disposable gear for a lively evening under the cloak of anonymity.

‘Who are we looking for?’ Ulrik asked when they stood before the JFK café’s saffron-yellow facade on the town square in Hillerød.

‘Wait and see,’ Ditlev said, opening the door to a rowdy Friday crowd. Noisy people in every corner. Not a bad place to be if you liked jazz and casual company. Ditlev hated both.

They found Helmond in the back. Full face glistening, he was standing in the company of another inferior local politician, gesticulating eagerly under the bar’s chandelier. Here, in this public space, they were engaged in their own little crusade.

Ditlev discreetly pointed him out to Ulrik. ‘It may take a while before he leaves, so let’s get a beer and wait,’ he said, heading to one of the bars further away.

But Ulrik stood still and observed their prey with enormous pupils behind tinted glasses, obviously quite
content with what he saw. His jaw muscles were already quivering.

Ditlev knew him well.

The evening was foggy and mild, and Frank Helmond talked to his companion for a long time outside the café before they finally went off in separate directions. Frank doddered further up Helsingørsgade, and they followed him at a distance of fifteen yards, knowing that from here to the local police station was two hundred yards at most. Another parameter that made Ulrik pant with lust.

‘We’ll wait until we reach the alley,’ Ulrik whispered. ‘There’s a second-hand shop on the left. No one walks through the alley this late.’

Further on, an elderly couple strolled up the fog-shrouded lane, headed towards the end of the street, their shoulders drooping. It was way past their bedtime.

Ditlev wasn’t concerned with them in the slightest; that’s how the coke operated. Apart from the couple, the street was deserted and conditions were perfect. The pavement was dry. A moist breeze embraced the shopfronts and the three men who were each about to play a role in a carefully orchestrated and thoroughly practised ritual.

When they were a few yards from Frank Helmond, Ulrik handed Ditlev a mask. By the time they reached him, the latex masks were in place. Had they been at a carnival, people would have smiled at them. Ulrik had a huge cardboard box stuffed with these masks. As he said, they needed a selection to choose from. This time he’d chosen model numbers 20027 and 20048. They could be purchased
on the Internet, but Ulrik didn’t do that. He brought them home from abroad. The same masks each time, the same numbers. Impossible to trace. Here were just two old men with the deep furrows of life chiselled into their skin. Very lifelike, and quite different from the faces they hid.