Mercy (37 page)

2

Ditlev Pram was a handsome man, and he knew it. In the business-class section of any aeroplane there was always a good array of women who had no objections to hearing about his Lamborghini and how fast it could drive out to his domicile in the fashionable suburb of Rungsted.

This time he’d set his sights on a woman with soft hair gathered at the nape of her neck and glasses with heavy black frames that made her look unapproachable. He found that titillating.

He’d already spoken to her, though without any luck. Offered her a copy of
The Economist
with a photo of a backlit nuclear reactor on the cover, but received only a dismissive wave of her hand in reply. He’d ordered her a drink, which she hadn’t touched. And by the time the plane from Stettin landed punctually at Kastrup Airport, he’d wasted a total of ninety precious minutes.

That was the sort of thing that brought out his aggressive side.

He started down the glass corridors of Terminal 3 and found his mark just before he reached the moving walkway. A man headed in the same direction was having trouble walking.

Ditlev picked up his pace so he arrived at exactly the moment when the old man set foot on the walkway. Ditlev pictured it so clearly: a carefully aimed kick would make the crippled body fall hard against the Plexiglas so that the old man’s face, with his glasses askew, would slide along the side as he frantically tried to get back on his feet.

Ditlev would have loved to put his thoughts into action. That was the sort of person he was. He and the others in the group had all been raised that way. It was neither exhilarating nor shameful. If he’d actually done what he was thinking, it would have been that bitch who was to blame. She could have just gone home with him. In an hour’s time they’d be lying in his bed.

It was her own damn fault.

His mobile rang as Strandmølle Inn slid past in the rear-view mirror and the dazzling waters of the Sound again rose up in front of him. ‘Yes?’ he said, glancing at the display. It was Ulrik.

‘I know someone who saw her a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘At the crossing outside the main train station on Bernstorffsgade.’

Ditlev turned off his MP3 Player. ‘OK. When exactly?’

‘Last Monday. The tenth of September. Around nine p.m.’

‘What have you done about it?’

‘Torsten and I went to have a look around. We didn’t find her.’

‘Torsten went with you?’

‘Yes. You know how he is. He wasn’t any help.’

‘Who have you put on the job?’

‘Aalbæk.’

‘Good. And how did she look?’

‘She was dressed OK, from what I heard. Thinner than before. But she reeked.’

‘She reeked?’

‘Yes, of piss and sweat.’

Ditlev nodded. That was the worst thing about Kimmie. Not merely the fact that she could disappear for months or years at a time, but that they never knew who she was. Invisible and then suddenly alarmingly visible. She was the most dangerous element in their lives. The only person who could truly threaten them.

‘We’re going to get her this time, do you hear me, Ulrik?’

‘Why the hell do you think I phoned?’