Three Dog Night (45 page)

He did a tour of the house. He felt bad about prying in her bedroom, which was a terrible mess. Piles of clothes were scattered around two chairs and the bed – panties, bras and camouflage trousers. He thought about Helle Bjergager's tidy, feminine room in Fredensgade 27. Kir's room was neither tidy nor feminine. There was no burgundy velvet cover on this bed – it was covered with an old, faded quilt – and there was no tray of candles – just an underwater torch on the battered bedside table along with seashells and conches. There were posters of divers on the wall and large drawings of various mines and instructions on how to defuse them. He had no doubt Kir took great care of her gear and as a mine clearance diver she had to be both organised and pay attention to details, but in her own home she had no sense of order. Where was her equipment? Not inside the house. So it had to be in the garage.

On the way out he read the letter lying on the kitchen table. Kir had been invited to spend three months in the Gulf of Aden hunting pirates. During that period, the doctors had planned some experimental treatment for him. He would be getting an injection every other day and each time he would have a temperature and experience flu-like symptoms the following day. The worse the reaction, the greater the chance that the medication was having an effect on the cancerous cells. He put the letter back on the table. If he was lucky, she would be away while he was in treatment and would come back when he was well again and ready to make a fresh start. If he wasn't …

He shuffled the letter around the table. He didn't want to think about it. Lady Luck hadn't really smiled on him.

He went into the garage. No wonder Kir's old Toyota estate had been banished to the drive. The garage was filled with an assortment of stuff, most of it work-related. There was also a fibreglass boat on a trailer. It was fitted with a single outboard motor. Unsuitable for long trips, but big enough to take to sea, so that she could dive or fish. He guessed that her job was also her hobby. He saw a lot of fishing equipment. Personally he didn't know one end of a fishing rod from the other.

He stepped on something as he moved further into the garage, where some dumbbells were lined up neatly on a foam mat. Looking down, he saw a yellow rubber glove matching the one in the kitchen. He picked it up and sniffed it. It was dry, but smelled of fresh detergent. He thought about the tepid water and a chill started to spread down his back. He took out his mobile and called Anna Bagger.

‘She's gone,' he said. ‘I think someone has taken her.'

He told her about the rubber gloves and the bucket while checking the garage over again.

‘And another thing,' he said. ‘I'm in her garage. There's a lot of diving equipment here, but there's no diving suit.'

Anna Bagger was on his wavelength immediately.

‘It seems we're not the only ones in need of a professional diver today.'

‘Now what?'

‘I'll sort it out with Sand. You'll have to find your way to the location without a diver.'

‘Any other news?'

‘We've been informed there's been a shooting incident in Lisbjerg Forest, near Århus. Grimme, the gang leader, has been found killed. A surviving gang member alleges Peter Boutrup shot him.'

‘When did that happen?'

‘A couple of hours ago. Boutrup is said to have been injured, so there's a good chance of finding him. I'm going there myself with the team.'

‘And Felix?'

‘If he's got her, he wouldn't take her to Djursland.'

‘And if he hasn't?' Mark asked.

An awkward pause ensued. Then she said: ‘It's all we've got to go on right now.'

She was right. She had to concentrate on a tangible incident and act. They had a shooting with a fatality and a clear identification of Boutrup. Of course they had to attend to it. It was her responsibility as a senior officer and there was no point telling her she was looking in the wrong place for the wrong man.

‘We're low on manpower,' she said. ‘You deal with Grenå, Mark. You hold the fort.'

T
HE FARM WAS
hidden beneath fresh snow, but was given away by the new red roof on the pig barn glowing in the last rays of the setting sun.

Peter drove his van up to the main building, got out and knocked on the door. But the place seemed deserted and no one answered. He walked around the building. It had completely stopped snowing now and the sun glistened on the latest fall. He didn't like to think what would happen if he didn't find Felix before nightfall. He had no idea whether she was dead or alive. But if they hadn't killed her, what state would she be in? How would she manage when the temperature fell even further at night? He found it hard to imagine that Red would provide her with a warm bed and a hot meal.

He found Christian Røjel by the dung heap behind the barn. He was wearing his habitual rubber boots and a thick overall over an Icelandic sweater. On top of that he had an old, worn leather coat. To Peter, the furrows in his long face seemed to have grown deeper and his eyes had acquired a dull sheen. He was holding a shovel, and in a flash Peter was able to imagine the same man in a cemetery digging graves with his long, grim face and his eyes fixed on the black hole.

‘Hello, Christian,' he greeted, as he approached.

Røjel's head shot up. His eyes narrowed and focused on Peter and there was no friendliness in them. For a moment the pig farmer held the shovel as if it were a weapon, but then he lowered it slowly.

‘We made a good job of that roof.'

Røjel stared at him. Then he raised a hand to his cap and pulled it further down over his eyes. His gaze sought the roof and moved to the horizon where the sun was low in the sky.

‘What do you want?'

There was bitterness in his voice. Peter went closer. There was a bundle at the man's feet. He saw it now. It was the family dog, a beautiful pointer.

‘What happened to your dog?'

Røjel sniffed, but not from emotion. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

‘It's dead. Can't you see?'

It had been a young dog. Three years old, as far as Peter recalled. He had thrown sticks for her. She had bounded after them, every muscle of her hunting body under her glistening coat tensed. He stepped closer. Røjel tightened his grip on the shovel.

‘Was she run over?'

The man's face turned to him in a snarl that bared a set of long, yellow teeth.

‘Of course it bloody wasn't. Haven't you got any eyes in your head?'

Peter looked at the dog at the man's feet. He saw what he hadn't seen before: there was barely any skin left on the body. The back and sides were covered in large open wounds. You could see the muscles, plaited together as if someone had studied a map of a dog's anatomy from a biology lesson and then tried to make reality match the drawing. He only hoped it had happened after the dog had died.

‘Who did this?'

‘How should I bloody know?'

Røjel's eyes avoided his. They also avoided the dog. Peter scrutinised the man for the slightest hint of grief at the dog's death, but found only a stony face.

‘It's cruelty to animals. It should be reported.'

‘That's what's Kir always says.'

‘Always?'

Silence. Peter looked at the dog. He thought about Tora. He thought about Felix.

‘Are you saying this is not the first time?'

Røjel turned to face Peter. The furrows were deep-set, the eyes sharp splinters of flint.

‘So what do you want?'

They stood for a while staring at each other, the farmer's unyielding eyes boring into Peter's, uninterested in his bleeding arm.

‘Red,' Peter said at length. ‘Where will I find him?'

Røjel bent down and went on digging.

‘How should I know?'

‘He's not in his pub and he's not at his flat. What other places has he got? Where does he keep supplies for the pub?'

Røjel stopped. Peter read profound mistrust in every muscle.

‘You're not one of us, Peter, and you never will be.'

‘I have no ambitions in that direction.'

Røjel nodded with half a smile, well hidden in the many wrinkles by his mouth.

‘That's what I like about you. You're no fool.'

Peter seized the opening: ‘When he was at the young offenders' institution, Red met a man who would later become the leader of a biker gang, Grimme. He's currently in Horsens Prison, from where he still conducts his various activities. He also uses Red.'

Røjel eyed him blankly. It was hard to say if this information was news to him. He turned and carried on digging. Peter continued: ‘Red kills and he's good at it. Grimme uses him to punish the gang's girlfriends when they try to break away. That girl Kir found in the harbour, Tora – she didn't have a face. Someone had skinned her. Like they skinned Zita here.'

Peter nodded towards the dog.

‘But perhaps that's what you do in your family? If you haven't got any girls you can skin, you start on your dogs?'

Røjel spun round. He was furious and dispirited at the same time, a man who had suddenly grown old and lost his grip on those he used to control.

‘What do you know about having sons? What do you know about bringing sons up?'

He leaned on the shovel as if it were his lifeline.

‘What would you know about building a life's work over generations?'

Peter looked at the man whose life was crumbling like soil between his fingers.

‘Nothing,' he admitted. ‘I know nothing about that.'

Røjel spat. Peter tried to see behind the flinty look.

‘Red is dangerous, Christian. He kills innocent girls.'

‘Girls, pah!'

Røjel thrust the shovel deep into the dung heap. ‘It's their own bloody fault. Running around, making a spectacle of themselves, thinking they can be just like men.'

‘Like Kir?'

It was a deliberate provocation. Røjel reached for his shovel and for a moment Peter thought he would strike him with it. But then he seemed to run out of steam and the danger passed, leaving a man deflated by his exertions.

The pig farmer stood on the dung heap and Peter saw him against the light, a black silhouette, a tall, lean man with a bony face and hands. The silence lasted so long he began to doubt if the man would ever speak again. Then Røjel inhaled deeply, a whistling sound.

‘It's called Konkylien.'

He spat out the words, laden with contempt and despair. ‘It's a cottage on Nørrevangsvej between Karlby and Veggerby. On a hill overlooking Nederskov.'

He took another deep breath.

‘Now go. I'm busy, as you can see.'

T
HEY HAD BEEN
at sea for one hour. In another, the sun would be gone. The light was already fading and the sea was black and hostile. On the horizon they could just about make out ‘
Jernhatten
', Ironhat, the tall, southernmost part of Djursland, a brown hill with a white top.

‘It's here.'

Kir pointed to the satnav. They were right over the location. Red stared first at her then over the railing. Was this her moment? The thought lasted for a split second, then he was back on his guard, pointing the gun at her.

‘You're going down. I want you to get something for me. From a wreck.'

She looked at the screen. The sea was 9.5 metres deep.

‘Swimming in a wreck isn't that straightforward. What am I looking for?'

She didn't ask the other questions: What would happen to her afterwards? Would he claim she had drowned while diving – a mine clearance diver, at a depth of ten metres?

‘I want you to fetch a packet,' Red said. ‘It's sealed. It's not big.'

He showed with his hands how big he thought it was. Like the sweater she had given him for Christmas and had wrapped up with sailing twine.

‘Where is it? What kind of boat is it?'

‘It's Brian's
Molly
.'

Brian. She hadn't heard that name for ages. He was one of Uncle Hannibal's many friends. She had always suspected him of supplying Hannibal with Polish vodka.

‘He managed to scuttle
Molly
and her cargo of heroin before he was locked up,' Red said. ‘It's worth seven million kroner.'

Kir looked at him. She wasn't scared of him or the gun. Perhaps she wasn't scared of dying. She had faced death so often. She didn't want to die, but it might be a price worth paying.

‘You're a real bastard, aren't you, Red?'

His face reddened. She looked across the sea and was reminded of another day on the same sea. Her, Tomas and Red in the boat. Suddenly Tomas was gone.

‘You're also a liar. You pushed Tomas overboard.'

She saw the muscles tense in his neck. His face was still almost as red as his birthmark.

‘I had to. It had to stop.'

She shook her head, confused.

‘What had to stop?'

‘You know perfectly well.'

She replayed the scene. She was back there. The water was clear and warm. They were fishing. Tomas and Red were spearing lugworms on the fishing hooks. The worms lay in a bucket at the bottom of the boat. Tomas was mesmerised. He stared at the guts of the worms as they spilled out. He touched them. He tasted them. His entire face lit up.

They started fishing and the boys caught a couple of small fish. Red threw his back in the sea after releasing them. Tomas left the hook in. He wriggled it back and forth to see how the fish would react. He took out the hook and stuck it into the eye of the fish.

The next thing she knew he was lying at the bottom of the boat with his mouth open like a fish gasping for air.

‘It was Tomas,' Kir said. ‘It was Tomas all along. The cockerel and the cats. I thought it was you.'

Red snorted with contempt.

‘You think I get a kick out of tormenting animals? I'm guilty of a lot of things, but cruelty to animals isn't one of them. I thought you'd worked that one out.'