Three Dog Night (30 page)

As she drove into the forest, the road narrowed even more. She had to reduce her speed dramatically when a car came towards her and the black car seized the chance to close the gap between them.

She didn't see it before it was too late. The road was even narrower now. A tree lay across it. She slammed on the brakes and felt a bump as the black car hit her from behind. She acted so quickly her brain nearly overheated. She drove forward. Reversed and manoeuvred in a frenzy. The door of the black car opened and a second later someone was pulling at her door. In the darkness she caught a glimpse of a man with a hood over his head. Surreally, he was pointing a pistol straight at her, but she ignored it and revved the engine. He grabbed hold of the door handle, but only with one hand. It swung open. She quickly pressed the accelerator and drove in between the trees with him hanging on. Eventually he had to let go when a tree got in his way. She ploughed the BMW back on the road and drove the way they had come, her pulse racing through her entire body and the passenger door still wide open. She heard a shot ring out. Then another. But the car continued undaunted and she started doubting whether she had heard any shots at all.

Back on the main road, she had to pull over to close the door while keeping an eye on the rear-view mirror. Her hands shaking and the blood throbbing in her veins, she put the car into gear and drove on. As she drove, she took her mobile from her bag and called Peter Boutrup, but there was no reply.

She headed for Djursland and kept checking her rear-view mirror to see if the black car had returned. But she couldn't see it. She turned off at a sign on the left to Tirstrup Airport and pulled into the short-term car park. She stopped near the taxi rank and let the engine idle while she watched the traffic. Once she was certain that no one was following her, she took out the briefcase and opened it. It was empty, but there had to be something concealed inside it. She patted it. The lining was indeed stained and she remembered when Maria had spilt hot chocolate and Erik had told her off. Had he already hidden whatever it was he wanted to hide inside the briefcase? Had he already planned at that stage to hand it to lost property so that no one coming to the house could find compromising evidence? Because that must have been what all this was about, she guessed. The briefcase had to contain something valuable or incriminating. And it didn't have to be very big.

Her fingers explored every corner of the briefcase. She looked for a concealed bottom, but found nothing. She turned the briefcase upside down and shook it; she explored every nook and cranny, and all the pockets. Still nothing. It was empty. Completely and utterly empty.

P
ETER CLAMBERED OUT
of the cabin, but Lily and her friend had already gone.

Horsens Prison. Something rang a bell, but he couldn't say what. Had she been an inmate in the women's prison? Or on the staff? Whatever it was, he was certain she was part of his past.

It was getting dark. He struggled to close the boat in the snow; his fingers were frozen as he reattached the tarpaulin and he stood for a moment watching as the snow covered all traces of the uninvited guests. Then he grabbed his shovel and walked back to the car. He took a detour around the areas of Højbjerg and Skåde until he rejoined Kystvejen and headed for the town centre. At Hotel Atlantic he pulled in, parked and sat for a moment scouring the area to see if he was being followed, possibly by a battered, silver-coloured 4x4, like the one the girls had used at the hospital when they rescued Anja. But there was only the snow falling like a blanket over the town and the traffic, which was almost at a standstill. On the road a snowplough drove past scraping the tarmac and spreading salt.

It was only then that he removed his woolly hat and eased the plastic card he had found between the boat's leather cushions out of the folds in the hat. It was a Hotel Atlantic key card. Room 422. He got out of the car, bought a parking ticket and placed it by the windscreen. Then he went inside the hotel, which was furnished in retro style, like something out of the 1960s, with functional furniture and a plain, light wood reception area.

There were no problems walking through the lobby and taking the lift up, nor inserting the key into the door of Room 422 and waiting to see if the lock would click open. But nothing happened, and that was when his mission grew more problematic. He thought for a while before taking the lift down again. He went to reception and joined the queue. When it was his turn, he leaned against the counter and gave the female receptionist his most charming smile.

‘Hi. A friend of mine used to stay in Room four-two-two and I haven't seen him for a long time. Erik Gomez Andersen. Do you know if he still comes here?'

He saw the confusion on her face. She frowned and her smile took on a sympathetic expression. ‘
The
Erik Gomez Andersen?'

‘Yes, what about him?'

‘He's dead, I'm afraid. An accident.'

She trained her gaze on him as though expecting him to faint from the shock and thinking she would need her first-aid training. Peter adapted his facial expression to a suitably shocked one and muttered something about having been out of town for a long time.

‘There you go,' he said. ‘You should never put off seeing your friends. One day it might be too late. But am I right in thinking that he used to come here often?'

She lowered her voice to signal she was speaking in confidence.

‘He booked Room four-two-two for weeks, but he rarely stayed here.'

Peter thanked her and turned to leave when he recognised a pair of long red boots and a head of dark hair, sitting in a chair with her back to him. A middle-aged man in a suit and white shirt with no tie sat next to Miriam.

Peter walked across and sat down in a chair nearby. The surprise on Miriam's face, when she saw him, was palpable, but she quickly shifted her gaze to the man in the suit.

‘Shall we go upstairs?'

The customer got up. They left two drinks on the table and crossed for the lift. Peter stayed where he was until she came back down again half an hour later and hesitantly approached him. She had probably been hoping he would have gone away in the meantime. She was in her work clothes: a short dress, long boots, dolled up for a party.

‘Before you start …'

She sat down and crossed her legs. He knew her. Her whole body was in defensive mode.

‘I don't owe you an explanation or an apology. You know what I do. Times are hard, work comes first.'

Her reaction saddened him. He had always expected her to carry on working. That was how they had got to know each other. There had to be another reason for her annoyance, he thought.

He handed her the card. She took it and he heard her click her long nails against the plastic.

‘What is it?'

‘You can see what it is. It's a key card for Room four-two-two.'

‘How did you get it?'

He told her and watched her face at the same time. Miriam was frowning and starting to look angry.

‘Four-two-two,' she said.

‘You've known all along, haven't you? You knew who Felix was. You knew what her husband was.'

He could tell from looking at Miriam that he was right, and he also saw the slight regret as she closed her eyes and massaged her temple.

‘Never mind all the things you haven't told me,' he said. ‘I'm sure you've got your reasons. We're here now.'

He looked around the lobby, at the guests coming and going through the revolving door, trundling their cabin cases after them.

‘And you clearly know this place much better than I do.'

He could see she was scared. He felt sorry for her, but also strangely hard inside.

‘Was Erik Gomez one of your punters?'

She made no reply.

‘Tell me about him.'

‘Peter …'

Her voice was swallowed up by noises from reception where guests were checking in and out. He waited while she scanned the room for someone. Who, he didn't know.

‘They called him MD,' she said at last, almost whispering. ‘He came here a lot.'

‘With women?'

‘And men.'

‘He was into men as well?'

She smirked. ‘It's not what you think.'

‘Then what? What kind of man was he?'

Miriam stared at the ceiling.

‘Nice man, good job. Wife and child.'

‘And the men?'

She pressed a nostril with one finger and sniffed with the other.

‘Drugs?' he asked.

Miriam's eyes became slits and her voice a hiss.

‘What's going on around you, Boy Scout? How do you think Lulu and I can stay in business?'

The realisation hit home.

‘You're working for someone.'

‘You work for someone.'

‘A biker gang?'

He could feel cold sweat on his forehead. For him biker gangs had a face.

‘Why do you think I'm here?' Miriam asked.

‘You've never told me.'

‘Would it have made a difference?'

‘I thought we were friends. I thought we had something special.'

There was disappointment in her eyes. Then she straightened up in the chair and rearranged her legs, her face firmly set.

‘We did,' she said.

‘You've changed.'

‘Has it ever occurred to you that you might be the one who has changed, Peter?'

She said it quietly, but it hit the mark. He shook his head. He didn't want to spend time analysing himself now, but he knew it would catch up with him later.

‘And if you think I'm going to give you any names, you're dumber than I thought,' she said.

They sat for a while in silence glaring at each other. Then he took a box of hotel matches from a bowl on the table and stood it on its side.

‘OK. I'm going to say something. If what I say is correct all you have to do is knock over the matchbox.'

It was a while before she nodded.

‘Erik was a drug dealer. He was in charge of distribution. He knew people who could afford it.'

Peter held up his hand. He hadn't finished. She remained silent as she looked straight at him and then down at her lap. He carried on: ‘But other people supplied the goods. Grimme was in charge of imports.'

She looked at him. It felt like an eternity. He could have sworn she blinked away a tear, but afterwards he wasn't so sure. Then her arm quickly shot out and her hand with the long red nails knocked over the matchbox. Then she got up and left.

It wasn't until he had sat for a moment composing himself that he remembered he hadn't switched his mobile back on after his visit to Horsens Prison. He took it out and saw there was a message from Felix. Her voice sounded frightened, but when he rang, there was no reply.

K
IR SQUINTED, BUT
it was six o'clock and so dark that she couldn't see the new roof on the pig barn.

She felt tense the moment she opened the door to her parents' house. Her airways started to close up in the porch as soon as she saw her mother's clogs and her father's wellies and was hit by the smell of pigs that always lingered on the clothes hanging from the coat stand. She went inside to the big kitchen. They were all there: Mum, Dad, Tomas and for once, Red, as well. It wasn't necessarily the recipe for a pleasant and relaxed dinner, but they had to have dinner together once a week, like it or lump it; her father insisted. Even if it only amounted to half an hour of grim silence until everyone could breathe a sigh of relief and go their separate ways. Of course they could choose to say no, or they could choose not to go, but Red was the only one who got away with that.

In her family they didn't go in for physical greetings, not even a handshake, it was just a nod and a ‘hi'. She had only ever hugged her parents once. It had been the day she appeared with a rucksack on her back ready to go to Kongsøre, thrilled at having been accepted for mine clearance diver training. They had frozen, both of them, as though she were a carrier of a contagious disease. It wasn't the done thing. The only creature ever to receive affection was Zita, a rough-haired pointer her father went hunting with. And the dog was the one Kir lavished her love on now as Zita politely came to greet her, again the only one.

‘Smells nice, Mum.'

‘The roast is a bit overdone. The meat's falling apart.'

Her mother made a quarter-turn while Kir squatted down and patted the dog. Her mother cut the crackling off the thick pork joint she had roasted in the oven with prunes and apples. There would be gravy and home-made red cabbage with boiled and caramelised potatoes, and under normal circumstances Kir would love nothing more than to tuck into a massive plateful, but today was different. Today the discovery of Gry's body lingered on her retina, and the smell of blood from the hotel room mixed with the smell of pork and forced bile up her throat.

‘So, not satisfied with finding a dead body washed up on the beach,' grunted her father, ‘this time you've gone and found a body at the hotel.'

He was sitting at the dinner table, holding a newspaper open, freshly showered, grey hair combed back, clearly emphasising the long, pointed shape of his face. His skin was weather-beaten, and his eyes were filled with scorn.

‘What were you doing there?'

She always had to defend herself. It had become a habit, so nowadays she barely gave it a thought.

‘He wasn't washed up on the beach.'

Her father lowered his newspaper and looked straight at her. No one ever came to her rescue, she thought. Either they were too scared or they thought she had only herself to blame. She usually played along. She usually gave him a detailed, polite reply, simply to keep the peace and ultimately perhaps for the sake of her mother. Possibly also a little for the sake of Tomas, even though he was too much in their pocket to speak up for himself. But today felt different and for the first time in ages she had seriously considered absenting herself.