Three Dog Night (41 page)

Peter let go of the curtain. He would always treasure the thought of their friendship. When everything fell apart and he could no longer hold the fragments of his life together, he would still have that. But although it meant so much to him, he was still prepared to risk it.

Manfred kept his guns in the living room. He knew where the key was because Manfred had shown him himself.

He fished it out from a Royal Copenhagen porcelain vase on a shelf and unlocked the gun cabinet. There were two rifles and two shotguns. He reached for the Finnish-made Sako rifle which Manfred had taken with him when they went hunting on New Year's Day. It was heavy and solid, one of the finest and most accurate rifles in the world.

He weighed the weapon, which was kept ready assembled with a magazine, and found six 30.06 calibre shells in a box. He put the bullets in his pocket, rested the butt of the rifle against his cheek and looked through the sights. For a brief moment he was back in the forest looking at the stag. The air stood still. He held his breath. His finger quivered slightly on the trigger.

‘It handles well.'

Peter spun around, with the rifle still against his cheek. Manfred was standing in the doorway, calm, his arms outstretched.

‘It can shoot a hole in a hole at a distance of a hundred metres.'

‘I know,' Peter said. ‘I hope I won't have to use it.'

‘You could have asked me. All you had to do was ask.'

They looked at each other for long seconds.

‘It's better this way,' Peter said, lowering the rifle.

‘We're friends,' Manfred said. ‘You should have trusted me.'

‘Perhaps that's precisely why.'

Manfred took a step towards Peter, who raised the rifle again. Manfred stopped.

‘You wouldn't do it.'

Peter shook his head.

‘I wouldn't run that risk if I were you.'

He had promised himself he wouldn't explain. And yet he did.

‘It's best if you say this: I broke into your house and stole a rifle and ammunition from your gun cabinet and I threatened you. Should anyone ask.'

‘And why would they do that?'

Peter backed away. There was no time; the atmosphere was too charged and he didn't want to drag Manfred into a mess that had its origins in his old world. That was how it was. His old and his new life were in a head-on collision.

‘Because they'll want to talk to me,' he said. ‘But I haven't got the time. There's something I have to do.'

‘Perhaps I could help?' Manfred offered.

Peter retreated to the door.

‘You'll get it back,' he said, and then left.

At home he changed into the white shearling jacket he had bought in a sale last winter. Kaj whined when he put on the jacket. He let him out and took him for a short walk on the cliff. The snow was now falling thick and fast, and the wind had risen so that it was blowing across the cliff. He watched the dog as he ran around and did his business. He bent down, made a snowball and threw it. Kaj raced off to catch it.

‘Good dog.'

He patted his head and thought about New Year's Eve. It was only a short time ago, but the night had tightened its grip on him and his world out here, his self-chosen no man's land. Nothing had been the same since.

He let the dog back in the house and ignored its pleas to come with him. He locked the door and was steering the van down the lane when Matti called.

‘You were right,' he said. ‘Grimme is on day release today.'

Peter reviewed the situation as he drove. He had several reasons to believe that the text about the meeting hadn't come from Cato. There was Cato's nervousness when they spoke earlier and the abrupt way their conversation had ended. There was the background noise and the unease Peter had detected on the phone. He hadn't believed a word Cato had said and he still didn't. The scout hut as a meeting place was an odd choice. They had never met there before. He and Cato had spent their childhood in and around Ry. Wouldn't it have been more obvious to pick somewhere in the woods around Ry, a place they both knew?

The conclusion was obvious: the rendezvous had been chosen by Grimme.

Peter had been online and printed off a map of Lisbjerg Forest. The hut was situated in the northern part, approximately ten kilometres from Århus. There were several entrances to the forest. He chose the one closest to the village of Lisbjerg and the furthest from the scout hut. From the clearing where he pulled over, he could see the large incineration plant in northern Århus, whose giant chimney belched out black smoke day and night – as it was doing now, high into the air. He could see it in the middle of the white landscape to the west, even though it was still snowing. He calculated it was opposite the hut and used it to navigate his way through the forest.

The tracks had been cleared enough for him to manoeuvre his way through the forest. The road was irregular and bumpy, and the van coughed and spluttered. Roughly one and a half kilometres from the hut he parked in a dark clearing where low-hanging spruce branches would conceal the white van to some extent. He took the rifle and started walking. There was one bullet in the chamber.

Approaching the hut, he kept close to the trees and moved with quiet stealth. It had eventually stopped snowing and the sun's rays shone through, warming his neck. There wasn't a breath of wind under the trees.

It was just like hunting. With every footstep, his tension evaporated into thin air. He knew he could do this. This was his thing. The forest, the forest floor, the birds, the ponds and the small streams; the sounds and smells and feeling of nature. He breathed it all in as he walked and his confidence grew. He was doing what had to be done. Fulfilling his responsibility.

Now and then he heard a rustle in the undergrowth or the treetops, and every time he would stop and stand very still to listen before carefully moving on. Once he saw a fox between the trees and later a panic-stricken mouse darted across the snow only to disappear quickly down its burrow. Apart from that, there was only the occasional flap of a pigeon. This forest wasn't very popular with visitors.

He heard the car long before he saw it and located the hut. He followed the noise and slunk from tree trunk to tree trunk. He hoped the white shearling jacket would act as camouflage.

Three men got out of the car. Peter crept a little closer and found a good vantage point, then lay down on his stomach in the snow, raised the rifle to his shoulder and watched. Through the telescopic sights he recognised one of them as Boxer Nose, the one he had beaten up outside the hospital. The other one could have been Anja's boyfriend, but he wasn't sure. He looked like most biker gang members: big, broad, thuggish. And slow.

The third man was in the crosshairs. He recognised Grimme, whose face had once been ripped open with a knife. It had gained him respect amongst gang members and a far from attractive appearance. That and his double murder conviction placed him at the top of the hierarchy and he had every intention of staying there. Grimme was as big as the others, but he moved with a lightness and an authority they didn't possess.

The three of them chatted amongst themselves, looking around and pointing. He could see their breath, like clouds above their heads, and hoped they couldn't see his.

A little while later they split up. Grimme opened the hut door and went inside. One of the two beefcakes disappeared around the back. The other positioned himself five metres from the front.

Peter slowly circled the hut at a safe distance. He looked at his watch. It was ten fifty-five. They were expecting him at eleven. At ten minutes past they would start to get nervous. He waited.

Ten minutes later, Grimme reappeared. He exchanged a few words with one of the guards and looked into the forest. Peter moved behind the hut, still at a safe distance. He spotted Boxer Nose. He was sitting on a tree stump, fiddling with his mobile. Every now and then he would look up and scan the area, but he was becoming increasingly distracted by his phone.

Peter sneaked up as close as he dared, pausing occasionally for several minutes behind a small hill or a tree, then taking greater risks. Finally he found a stone which he threw to one side, hitting a tree trunk. The noise made the man look up. Peter threw another. The man got up and approached the spot where the stones had landed. For a moment he stood still, holding a gun in one hand and his mobile in the other.

Peter leaped up, raised the rifle and slammed the butt into the back of the man's head. Boxer Nose fell to the ground with a grunt. Peter wondered whether to hit him again, but the man was unconscious; he had gone out like a light.

He knelt down, took Boxer Nose's gun and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he picked up the dropped mobile and flung it far into the forest. He was close to the hut now, at the back. It was a low wooden construction with moss and patches of snow on the roof. He swung the rifle over his shoulder, scaled the uneven timber wall and crawled on to the roof with ease, the snow muffling any sounds. He had sat on a ridge many times before to repair a rafter or a roof. Manfred was the expert, but Peter knew how to keep his balance.

He straddled the ridge, took out his mobile and texted Cato. A few seconds later, Grimme appeared with a mobile in his hand and walked over to the car. Peter aimed the rifle and fired off a 30.06 calibre bullet. The windscreen of the 4x4 shattered. The guard clutched his face as glass and metal fell in a cascade. He whimpered. Grimme fumbled for the pistol he had dropped in the snow. Peter's second shot, this time with Boxer Nose's gun, hit him in the arm. The gang leader roared like a raging bull and rolled around in the snow.

‘I've got another five bullets in the magazine,' said Peter from his position on the roof. ‘Plus this.'

He dangled the gun between two fingers. ‘I think it's time we had a little chat.'

M
ARK TOOK THE
winter with him into the meeting room at Grenå Police Station. He was still wearing his heavy boots and coat, and his trousers were wet up to his knees from running across the field near Allingåbro.

He sat down, took out his packet of V6 chewing gum and popped a piece into his mouth so that no one would smell the vodka. But the detectives had other things on their minds. Most were sitting back against coats and jackets thrown over chairs, quietly discussing the latest developments. Their footwear had left puddles of melted snow on the floor and there was a stale smell of wet scarves, mixed with frustration.

Anna Bagger's investigation team had been supplemented with a man from the Air Accident Investigation Board and an inspector from East Jutland Police in Århus. The two visitors sat next to each other in the front row. On the surface Anna Bagger was her usual impeccable self, but Mark could sense her tension as she got ready to chair the meeting. She was annoyed. This wasn't a textbook investigation, but nor was it a disaster. It was just a bummer of a case: unpredictable – evidence and information pointing in all directions – a bummer.

‘There's been a development,' she said, to open her briefing. ‘Felix Gomez from Gjerrild Cliff has been reported missing. She was last seen at thirteen-ten in the SOK building in Brabrand. In the meantime we've received two further pieces of information.'

She opened a green folder, took out a sheet and read.

‘Last July Felix lost her daughter and her husband in a helicopter crash in the Kattegat. She was in the helicopter, but survived the crash. After she was discharged from hospital, she settled down in Gjerrild to live a quiet life.'

More muttering. Anna Bagger's eyes sought, and found, Mark.

‘Since the accident Felix has been suffering from amnesia. The police and the Air Accident Investigation Board have been collaborating to establish what happened that day. Evidence suggests that this crash is linked to our case, or should I say, cases?'

Her voice cracked. She reached for the water on the table.

Mark suppressed an outburst. Damn! They – he included himself – should have checked up on Felix Gomez. They had focused too much on Boutrup because of his criminal past and forgotten all about her. Felix had kept out of the spotlight, a single woman minding her own business. Small, self-effacing and quite clearly a stranger to her new neighbour on the clifftop. Who would have thought she could have had such a dramatic history?

Anna Bagger continued: ‘Given the seriousness of the case, Inspector Erling Bank, who has dealt with the case … is dealing with the case,' she corrected herself, ‘has come to see us. As has Arthur Sand from the Air Accident Investigation Board.'

She nodded to Bank, who trotted up to the whiteboard with a speed that seemed to defy nature: he was a small, thickset man. His voice sounded as if he had a peg on his nose and he was angry.

‘If any of you had bothered to read back six months this might not have happened,' he said. ‘It's extremely irritating, to put it mildly.'

Anna Bagger drew a deep breath.

‘We'll deal with that later,' she said.

Bank continued, a little milder and in best management-speak: ‘Had we been cognizant of the link between the two investigations, we could have been more proactive.'

He launched into an extended report: ‘At the time of the accident, we were forced to consider the possibility that it might have been sabotage. The weather was fine and this type of helicopter has an excellent safety record, I am told.'

He glanced at Arthur Sand from the Air Accident Investigation Board before continuing: ‘Gomez was an experienced, competent pilot. He appeared to be a happily married man with a good job. It was true he had some financial problems; however, that's not a criminal offence and we're in the midst of a financial crisis. Why would anyone have wanted to kill him?'

Bank displayed the palms of his hands: ‘We found nothing on him. Furthermore, we couldn't prove that anyone had tampered with the helicopter.'