The Purity of Vengeance (48 page)

 • • • 

Once he’d transferred the file to his laptop he opened it again and enlarged the photo until it filled the screen. It had been taken only ten minutes before, and the sky above the smiling couple was burning red in the last throes of sunset. Behind them were palm trees and, farther back, dark faces and an expanse of blue ocean.

He opened the “Planets” app on his iPhone and tapped “Globe” for an exact specification of the sun’s present position. He studied the data and saw that the only tropical location where the sun had set ten minutes ago was the southern tip of Madagascar. The other areas within its axis were open sea, Middle Eastern desert, and temperate regions of the former USSR.

Since they were standing with their backs to the sunset, they had to be on the western side of the island. Madagascar was large, certainly, but not big enough to conceal them forever. If he sent Mikael down there to ask around for two elderly, gray-haired Scandinavians, he would find them in no time. A bribe here and there always worked wonders, and there would be plenty of sharks in those waters to erase all traces.

It was the first good news of the day.

He smiled and felt his strength return. “Nothing wears a man down like faintheartedness,” his father always said. A wise man indeed.

He leaned his stiff frame backward and peered out at the police cadets engaged in their role-playing beneath the trees of the academy grounds on the opposite side of the road. To his disgust he noted that several of the young people in uniform were dark-skinned, and then the Nokia rang on the table.

“It’s Mikael. I’m with one of our people. No need for you to know the name. Seven minutes ago we observed Hafez el-Assad leaving Police HQ. He’s now on his way down the stairs from Tietgens Bridge to the platforms at Central Station. What do you want us to do?”

What should they do? Surely it was obvious.

“Follow him. If you get the chance to do so unseen, grab him and take him away. Keep the line open so I can listen in. And make sure he doesn’t see you.”

“Like I said, there’s two of us. We’re keeping our distance, no need to worry.”

Curt smiled. Second piece of good news. Maybe this was a turnaround.

He lay down again next to his dying spouse, his ear pressed to the Nokia on the pillow. Life and death, juxtaposed.

When he had lain there listening for some minutes and sensed that Beate’s breathing had all but ceased, a whisper sounded in the receiver at his ear.

“We’re on the S-train now, heading for Tåstrup. He might be leading us to his proper address. We’re at each end of the carriage by the doors, so he’s not going to give us the slip, you can be sure of it.”

Curt commended him and turned to Beate. He placed his fingertips against her neck. There was still a pulse, but it was weak and unpredictable as death itself.

He closed his eyes for a moment and his mind filled with memories of rosy cheeks and laughter that chased away all concerns. How could we ever have been so young? he wondered.

“RIGHT!” Curt awoke with a start at the sudden exclamation from the mobile. “He’s off the train at Brøndbyøster. I reckon he’s on his way to your place, Curt.”

Had he nodded off? He shook away his bewilderment and sat up in bed with the mobile to his ear. “Keep your distance. I’ll be ready when he gets here. But be discreet. The cadets from the police academy over the road are running around like cowboys and Indians.”

Curt smiled. He would give this Assad a warm welcome.

He would have to leave Beate for just a few minutes. He turned to ask her for her patience, only to see that her eyes were wide open, her head thrust back.

He held his breath for a few seconds, then gasped as he looked into her glazed, lifeless gaze. She seemed to be staring at where he had lain, as though in her final moment she had sought contact. And he had been asleep. He was mortified. He had not been there for her when she needed him the most.

He felt his abdomen tighten into a knot, then a pounding sensation delivered into his chest, causing him to convulse, a guttural sound rattling in his throat. His face contorted, and then a long, almost inaudible howl penetrated his sobbing.

Thus he remained for some minutes, holding her hand in his, until finally he closed her eyes and got to his feet without looking back.

In the room next to the dining room he found the bat with which his sons had hammered the daylights out of countless tennis balls. He weighed it in his hand, finding it suitably heavy, and then went out into the yard to lie in wait behind the gable end of the outbuilding.

He listened to the boisterous sound of voices from over the road, where the police cadets were acting out their youthful ideals, separating good from bad. It was exactly what Curt was about to do now. He would deliver a crippling blow to the nape of Hafez el-Assad’s neck, then drag him quickly away to the safety of the outbuilding. When the others arrived they would help him get the body into the strong room.

His mobile thrummed in his pocket.

“Yes?” he whispered. “Where are you now?”

“We’re standing at the junction of Vestre Gade and Brøndbyøstervej. He’s given us the slip.”

Curt frowned. “What?”

“He ducked into a housing development and all of a sudden he was gone.”

“Split up and get after him immediately.”

He snapped the mobile shut and looked around. He felt quite safe here in the corner of the yard, a high wall behind him facing Tværgaden. An intruder could come from only one direction, which was up the driveway, parallel to the outbuilding at whose far end he stood concealed. He was prepared.

Only a few minutes passed before he heard the sound of footsteps. Cautious, tentative footsteps in the driveway, moving closer, meter by meter.

Curt tightened his grip on the bat and crept forward to the corner of the building. He took a deep breath and held it until he saw a head appear.

In the split-second before he hammered the weapon home, the head was withdrawn.

“It’s me, Curt!” said a voice, quite unlike the Arab’s.

A figure came forward, one of their own. A man Mikael used once in a while at some of their larger events.

“You blithering idiot!” Curt hissed. “Get out of here, you’ll frighten him off. Back to the road, and make sure he doesn’t see you.”

He stood for a while, his heart thumping in his chest as he cursed the fools in his midst. Come on, you little wog, he urged as the sounds of the police training exercises dwindled. Let’s get this over with.

Hardly had the thought of the impending encounter flashed through his mind before a dull thud came from behind him. He glanced back in time to see a pair of hands appear on top of the wall, and as he turned the man landed like a cat, crouched on all fours in front of him, glaring at him with eyes that had fixed their prey.

“We need to talk, Curt,” the Arab uttered immediately, but Wad raised the bat and brought it down with all his might.

In one swift movement, the short, thick-bodied man spun aside, propelling himself upright with a powerful thrust. And as the bat struck the ground with a heavy thump, he leaped forward and grabbed Curt firmly with both arms around his torso.

“We’re going inside now, understand?” he whispered. “You have too many hyenas running loose out here.”

He squeezed hard until Curt felt his breath fail. He wanted to scream for help but was unable to fill his lungs with air.

The Arab hauled him quickly across the yard onto the lawn by the back door. A couple of seconds more and they would have been inside. But then came the sound of footsteps running up the driveway and the figure of Mikael appeared, stopping suddenly and staring at them in surprise. Curt’s assailant squeezed harder, until the old man almost passed out. And then he released him.

Curt lay for a moment facedown in the grass. He heard the tumult behind him. Blows exchanged, the invective of two languages.

He got to his feet with difficulty and staggered over to the outbuilding where the bat still lay on the ground.

When he picked it up, the Arab was standing in front of him.

Curt glanced instinctively toward the lawn, where Mikael lay unconscious. Who was this man?

“Let go of that,” said Hafez el-Assad, in a tone that excluded defiance.

The sound of the wooden bat as it fell to the flagstones was like the feeling Curt had in his stomach.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“I know people like you better than you think, and you will not go free,” the Arab replied. “I want to know all about your activities, and I’m certain everything we need to incriminate you is inside this house. You are a murderer, Curt Wad.”

He gripped Curt’s wrist firmly and dragged him along behind him.

They reached the back door when something flew through the air, impacting on the Arab’s skull with a sickening crack. He crumpled to the ground.

“There!” said a voice from behind. It was Mikael’s man. “That’s as far as he gets.”

 • • • 

Not long after Curt had called his protégé in the surgery he heard the key rattle in the lock downstairs.

“Thanks for coming so quickly, Karl-Johan,” he said, as he led him to the bedroom.

Karl-Johan Henriksen did as required, then removed his stethoscope and looked at Curt with a grave expression. “I’m very sorry, Curt,” he said. “But she’s at peace now.”

He filled in the death certificate with trembling hands and seemed to be even more affected by the situation than Curt himself.

“What are you going to do now, Curt?”

“I’ve made arrangements with one of our supporters, an excellent undertaker in Karlslunde. I’ve just been on the phone to him and I’ll be seeing him this evening. Tomorrow I’ll call the pastor. Beate will be laid to rest in the old cemetery here at Brøndbyøster church.”

Carl took the document and accepted Karl-Johan Henriksen’s condolences. They shook hands.

And with that, a long and seemingly everlasting chapter had come to an end.

It had been a truly strenuous day.

He sat for a while with his wife and noted that her body was already cold. How fleeting life was.

Then he made her up and tidied the bedroom. He took his car keys, went over to the outbuilding, opened the strong room, and saw there was still life in the dark figure that lay on the concrete floor.

“Sleep well, my foolish little Arab. And if you have not departed this world when I get back from the undertaker, I shall be only too happy to help you off on the final journey.”

38

September 1987

The closer Gitte got
to Copenhagen, the more her plan took shape.

Ten million was a lot of money, but Nete had more, plenty more. Gitte was only fifty-three, and ten million kroner was hardly going to last a lifetime. Not the way she spent money, not with all the dreams inside her head. If she looked after herself and cut back on her drinking, she might easily have another thirty or forty years ahead of her. In that case, it didn’t take an accountant to work out that ten million was on the short side.

The plan, therefore, was for Gitte to assume control of everything Nete owned. As yet, she was unsure as to how. It would depend on the way things panned out. The best thing would be if Nete was still as malleable as before. But if she really was as ill as she made out, Gitte would just have to make herself indispensable until her time was up. Nete’s will and the signatures that would be needed were an obstacle she felt confident of surmounting.

And if Nete wasn’t cooperative, more drastic means were always an option. It wasn’t what she wanted, but at the same time she was certainly not ruling it out. She’d done it before, sending terminally ill patients on to the afterlife quicker than fate had intended.

 • • • 

It had been Rita Nielsen who first discovered Gitte’s weakness for women. With her soft lips and damp hair hanging in front of her eyes she could make Gitte weak at the knees. It was forbidden, of course, but when Rita’s blouse clung tightly in the steam of the washhouse, and Gitte at the same time was invested with the authority to order her down to the meadows at will, Gitte was the one who took the lead.

And Rita Nielsen was more than willing. Her soft, warm body craved pleasure, and Gitte delivered.

Their liaison continued for as long as Rita was obliging, but when she got up one night and pulled her blouse back down over her breasts, it all came to an end.

“I want away from here and you’re going to help me,” she announced. “You’re to tell the matron I’m rehabilitated and that you recommend they let me out of the system. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t the way Gitte was used to being spoken to by the girls of Sprogø, and she wasn’t prepared to accept it. The girls scattered at Gitte’s command, and that was how she intended it to continue. They looked up to her and feared her for the tyrant she could be when the occasion suited her.

No one sent as many to the contemplation rooms as Gitte. No one made such a noise if a girl should be disrespectful. The other members of the staff found her actions laudable and admired her, for she was a qualified nurse and good-looking to boot.

Gitte thought about cuffing Rita for her impudence, but hesitated a moment too long, and instead found herself on the receiving end of a slap in the face that almost took her breath away and caused her to stumble backward to the ground. How dare this simple girl raise a hand to her?

“You know full well I can destroy you. I can describe your body in every detail, and I will, in front of the matron, unless you help me,” Rita calmly stated, standing over her. “And when I tell her how you force me to please you, my descriptions alone will be enough for her to realize I’m telling the truth. So you’re going to send me back to the mainland. I know it’s the doctors who decide, but you’ll sort it.”

Gitte’s eyes followed a flock of geese passing across the sky. And then she nodded faintly.

Rita would return to the mainland, but not until it suited Gitte. Not a moment before.

 • • • 

The next morning, Gitte pinched herself hard on the cheeks before knocking firmly on the matron’s door and stepping inside to be met by a look of immediate horror from her superior behind the desk.