Three Dog Night (44 page)

She missed work. She missed Allan Vraa and the others. The diving truck, the drysuit, the sensation of gliding through the water on a mission. She stood up, supporting herself on the mop, and bent over the kitchen table and read the letter again. It was from the Frogman Corps's EOD Division in Kongsøre and had arrived that morning. Allan Vraa was putting together a team to go to the Gulf of Aden to hunt pirates. Was she interested?

She returned to the mop. She had neglected housework for a long time and the kitchen floor was greasy. She could hardly be further away from the place described in the letter: the waters off the coast of Somalia, where pirates were taking Westerners as hostages. Departure in one week. Sun and camaraderie on board. HDMS
Absalon
and exciting work. Getting away from Grenå. She should have left a long time ago, but now it had suddenly become difficult. Now that she had given up on her family, something else was keeping her here. Or was that the very reason why she should say yes? Perhaps there really was nothing to stay for?

She heard the car outside and could tell from the engine whose it was. Seconds later Red filled the doorway.

‘Get your gear together. You're going diving.'

She said nothing. She simply stared at him. He was dressed completely in black: black combat gear, black leather jacket and black boots. He looked like a mercenary on a secret mission. He also had that expression on his face: as if he was staring death in the face. The red birthmark was practically pulsating.

‘Are you kidding?'

She blinked. But he wasn't kidding, that much was obvious. He was used to getting his way. She was his baby sister. He expected total obedience.

‘And where were you thinking I would dive?'

She deliberately carried on scrubbing the floor, on her knees. She found a greasy spot under the table and worked at it with the floorcloth, her thoughts sprinting ahead. What was he up to? What had she failed to see?

‘And don't walk on the floor,' she warned him, but her voice sounded uncertain. He was her brother, but he hadn't come for a chat. He was like a ticking time bomb that could go off at any moment, triggered not by acoustics, or magnetism, or movement, but by what she said or did.

‘Look at you,' he said. ‘Down on all fours. Just where you belong.'

She was shocked by the level of bitterness and hatred in his voice. Where did it come from?

She got up. Gradually the gravity of the situation dawned on her. She was a soldier, but her judgement almost failed her, faced with him, her brother. She gave herself a talking-to. She had to keep her wits about her. This was serious, no doubt about it. But it was a situation she could handle.

‘OK,' she said carefully. ‘What do you want?'

‘What I just said.'

His hand moved in his jacket pocket. Any other enemy and she wouldn't have been so shocked. He pulled out a pistol and pointed it at her.

‘I didn't know you had one of those.'

‘There's a lot you don't know about me. Get your gear. We're going.'

Her training took over. Patience, she thought. Do what he tells you. Wait for the right moment.

Drag the time out if you can.

She pulled off her rubber gloves, forcing herself to keep him under surveillance. For the first time she saw herself through his eyes: she had passed him in the outside lane. His baby sister had long since proved that she was stronger and more capable than him, though he was the one who, from the very start, had received all the support, all the belief from her parents. Her achievements as a mine clearance diver and as a soldier were a provocation. She was a threat. She wondered if that was really what this was about.

‘I need to know how deep down you want me to go. So I know what kit to bring.'

She rolled up one glove and stuffed it in her pocket while still keeping her eyes on his. The other she left on the rim of the bucket.

‘Ten to fifteen metres. Come on. Get your gear!'

She looked out of the window. It was still snowing, but not as much as it had done earlier. The wind was picking up again, though.

‘How far are we going?'

‘You're asking too many questions. Get a move on.'

Or else what, Red? she thought, but she knew better than to ask.

‘I need to go to the garage. That's where I keep all my equipment.'

‘Get your diving gear on now,' he said. ‘And hurry up.'

He followed her outside. She lived at the end of the road; her neighbours were far away and wouldn't notice a thing. The expensive EOD kit they used on assignments was at the naval base, so she used her own private equipment. She took her time checking the manometer, making sure the pressure of the tank was 280 bar. She was a kit nerd. Sports divers tended to use equipment with only 200 bar in the tank. While she was checking it, she took the opportunity to drop the rubber glove in her pocket on the floor. Then she changed and put on first the undersuit and then the drysuit. When she got to the diving knife and was about to attach it to her leg as usual, he took it from her.

‘You won't be needing that.'

He kept it. She carried the gear into his car, her mind racing ahead of her. He probably intended to use Uncle Hannibal's motorboat. He had made sure he got it when it was found on Fjellerup Beach, where it had drifted ashore. It was unlikely anyone would see them setting off. He would have moored the boat in a secluded spot. But even if anyone did see them, they would think that Red Røjel and his sister were off on some entirely legitimate trip. A crazy trip, given the winter weather. But that was just like her, they would think. The crazy diver, who always had to draw attention to herself with her foolhardy behaviour. A constant source of embarrassment to her parents.

Red gave her the car keys and pushed her into the driver's seat.

‘Drive.'

She started the car and reversed in jerks, almost knocking into the larch hedge. She hoped she was leaving behind conspicuous tyre tracks. Red sat on the passenger seat pressing the gun into her side. She could feel it against her diving suit.

‘We're going to the harbour. No funny stuff.'

She drove down the coastal road. It wasn't far. Not much time to think or begin a conversation. Just time to do what had to be done.

The harbour was deserted. The divers had gone. No one in their right mind would sail today, except the Varberg ferry.

‘Over there.'

He ordered her past the Norwegian company where rusty heaps of scrap metal were waiting to be turned into money.

‘Down to the right. You can park there.'

As she had predicted, the boat had been moored in a remote location so that no one would see them, unless they had a reason to be on the breakwater today. They couldn't be seen from any of the businesses, Thorfisk, the freight company, the ferry berth or the scrapyard. All the cutters, dinghies and yachtsmen were far away, right up the other end.

He jumped out and told her to carry the equipment box.

‘Over there,' he nodded.

Sure enough, moored to a post in the water, there was Uncle Hannibal's motorboat, bobbing up and down. It was a bit like a cutter with its inboard motor, small cabin and maximum speed of fifteen knots. She had many happy memories of that boat. Today wasn't going to be one of them.

‘Down you go.'

She scrambled down. He handed her the box. No chance of disarming him. Not yet. He came down the ladder with his back to the rungs and the gun pointing at her. He stuck his hand into his pocket and found the keys, which he handed to her with a note. She read: 561562 N. 0113422 E.

‘Shouldn't be a problem for you to find, should it?'

She checked. There was a satnav in the wheelhouse. He made her drag the boat fenders on board. Then he nodded for her to insert the key in the ignition. The engine started with a low growl. Red slipped the mooring. She put the boat in gear and reversed out. Then she programmed the satnav and steered them out of the harbour.

‘M
ARIA
?'

Felix whispered the name into the darkness. For a long time there was no reply. Plants clung to her with their green tentacles and soft caresses, but they had no voices. Being at the bottom of the sea was wonderful. The plants undulated gently while the waves formed intricate patterns of sunlight on their leaves. It was warm and peaceful. Far away, where the water was no longer quite so clear, Maria was singing a Spanish ballad. Felix opened her arms in anticipation. In a moment Maria would come running to her.

‘… ter.'

Someone was speaking. The sea disappeared, taking Maria with it. Felix blinked in the gloom. She must have passed out. Now she was back in her prison. She wasn't lying at the bottom of the sea, but in a freezing cold garage somewhere unknown to her. Alone, or so she had thought, but that was before the voice in the darkness. It sounded as if the walls were talking, but the voice was devoid of any strength.

‘Is anyone there?'

She, too, struggled to find her voice. She listened intently for a reply, but heard nothing.

She turned her head and stared into the old fish crates and stacked coils of rope. Her eyes went up to the old bricklayer's tub and discovered for the first time that there was a hole in the wall, a rectangular opening where a door must have been.

Her neck protested and pain flashed through her breasts as she tried to twist her body towards the doorway. The scabs split open. She placed her fingers on her breasts, but the sores hurt too much. The fever vied with the cold. Her tongue was rough, like sandpaper.

‘Can you hear me?'

She didn't manage to get all the words out. She summoned all her strength and said: ‘Are you there?'

The reaction was clear now. Something scraped across the floor on the other side.

‘Water.'

Leaning across the mattress was agony. A nail or a spring was digging into her thigh, but the sharp tip was as nothing compared to the pain from the branding. Her ankles were still shackled, even though her hands were free. The chains cut deep into her flesh as she stretched as far as she was able. To the right, she glimpsed a naked foot.

‘Who are you?'

‘Water,' the voice said.

Felix closed her eyes. The sea returned with the warm sway of the water. The rim of the tub was soft. She had to rest her head against it, just for a moment.

‘Who are you?' the voice asked her this time. It came from far away.

Felix sat up. She must have passed out again. Her head was pounding.

‘Felix.'

She spoke her name into the darkness. Hearing her own voice helped. She reached forward again. The foot moved once more.

‘I'm Anja,' the voice said. ‘Are you with Lily, too?'

Felix didn't understand. She had no idea what Anja was talking about.

‘Mine is called Swatch. What's yours called?' Anja asked.

‘Who's Lily?' Felix asked, but there was silence and for a moment she thought it was the last time she would hear Anja. Then the voice said: ‘Water.'

Felix looked into the tub and discovered it was half full. Melted snow had dripped from a hole in the roof.

‘I can't reach you,' she said.

She would never be able to push the big tub towards Anja. Or perhaps she could. If she really made a huge effort.

There was a pause, then Anja whispered: ‘He's scared of water.'

M
ARK PARKED IN
front of Kir's house, which was at the end of Hasselvej, an enclosed plot in the old summer house area south of Grenå. He had tried calling her landline and her mobile, but all he got both times was a request to leave a message.

The house was old; black stained wood with white windows. There was a garage next to it. Facing the road was a tall larch hedge which effectively shielded it from nosy parkers. Kir's old Toyota was parked in the drive, close to the front door.

He rang the bell. When there was no reply, he tapped on the window, but there was no reaction there, either. He looked through the kitchen window and saw a bucket in the middle of the floor. There was a mop leaning against the wall and a cloth on the floor tiles, as if she had been in the middle of cleaning when she left the house. A yellow rubber glove hung over the rim of the bucket. He could see a letter on the table.

He pressed the handle, but the door was locked. It would take too long to pick the lock. He went back to his car, found a rug and fetched the jack from the boot. After covering the glass window in the front door with the rug as best he could, he smashed it with the jack. He looked around. Not a peep from the summer houses. He hoped no one had heard the noise to make them come rushing over, or even more ridiculous, call the police.

He removed the remaining shards from the frame, using the rug for protection, and stuck his arm through. It was a strain to reach, but his fingers finally found the lock and turned it. No problem pressing the handle then. He entered the hallway and closed the door behind him.

‘Kir? Are you there?'

There was no reply, and something about the silence troubled him. She might have a perfectly valid reason to be out, of course, but who would leave their house while they were in the middle of washing the floor? Where would she go on foot in this kind of weather? As far as he knew, there were no shops nearby, but she could have gone for a walk or dropped in on a friend. Perhaps she had a boyfriend – what did he know? – who had picked her up in his car. The thought wormed its way into his brain and gnawed at him, and he had to make an effort to ignore it.

He looked around the room, which was a kitchen and living room combined. At first glance, the only alarm bell was the bucket. He didn't know a great deal about housework, but logic told him you wouldn't walk away in the middle of washing the floor. Besides, Kir had walked across the wet tiles to get out, he could see that now. There were footprints on the tiles, possibly from two different pairs of shoes or boots. One pair was a size that could have been Kir's. The other was bigger and might have belonged to a grown man. He put his hand in the bucket. The water was tepid, but not completely cold.