‘Why hasn’t Gustav arrived?’
Vogel takes her hand. ‘The driver is bringing him now. Everything’s okay, Rosa.’
‘What else do you remember about Benedikte Skans? Was she with anybody that day at Christiansborg?’ the agent persists.
But the sense of unease has snagged. For some reason it crosses Rosa’s mind that the driver had asked yesterday whether he or Steen was driving Gustav to tennis. But it’s the sound of Engells’ voice that makes her stiffen.
‘Apparently we don’t know as much about the boyfriend, the child’s father, except that he was deployed to Afghanistan as a driver and is called Asger Neergaard …’
Vogel goes rigid too, and they exchange a glance.
‘Asger Neergaard?’
‘Yeah …’
Instantly Rosa checks an app on her phone, while Vogel leaps so violently from his chair that it overturns behind him. It’s a security app, ‘Find My Child’, which she and Steen installed last year to keep track of where Gustav’s phone is located. But the GPS map is blank. Gustav’s mobile isn’t broadcasting a signal. Before Rosa can say that out loud, the intelligence agent strides back through the door, lowering his phone from his ear. The moment she sees his face, she feels the floor evaporate beneath her – just like the day Kristine disappeared.
91
It dawns on Hess that he’s not been listening for several minutes. He’s sitting to Thulin’s left at the long table in the operations room, his eyes fixed apathetically on the windows overlooking the courtyard, which now are shrouded in darkness. Around him is a thrum of busy, stressed voices, reminding everybody of the situation’s gravity. He’s been here before. No matter where in the world you are, it’s always the same story when a kidnapping comes in. Except that it is significantly more intense when the victim is the child of a prominent politician.
Hartung’s ministerial car was found abandoned nearly five hours earlier at a motorway lay-by south-west of Copenhagen. No trace of the boy, Benedikte Skans or Asger Neergaard. No demands from the kidnappers, either. The discovery of the empty car has launched one of the biggest searches in Danish history. Borders, airports, train stations, bridges, ferry terminals and coastlines are being guarded or patrolled, and Hess feels as though the entire fleet of squad cars has been dispatched on to the streets to keep a lookout. Control of the operation is being shared between Intelligence and the Copenhagen Police, and even members of the Civil Defence Force have been yanked away from their dinnerplates and sent out into the autumn gloom. Colleagues in Norway, Sweden and Germany have been apprised, as have Interpol and Europol, but Hess hopes they will play no part in the search. If the international authorities contact them it will be because there are indications the kidnappers have crossed several borders, in which case any chances of finding Gustav Hartung are dramatically reduced. Of finding him alive, especially. The rule of thumb in kidnapping cases is that the chances are best in the first twenty-four hours, when the trail is still warm. Yet with every passing day the likelihood decreases, and Hess knows from the statistics at the Hague that the estimate is based on actual cases of missing children. He tries to think of something other than the kidnapping case he’d been involved in a few years earlier, which had required the collaboration of the German and French police. A two-year-old boy from Karlsruhe had disappeared, and the French-speaking kidnapper demanded two million euros’ ransom from his father, a German bank manager. Hess was present at the exchange, but the money was never picked up at the appointed place, and one month later they found the boy’s body in a drain, just five hundred yards from the bank manager’s house. The medical examination revealed that the boy’s skull had been cracked, probably because the kidnapper had dropped him on to the asphalt near the manhole cover as he fled the area, the same day as the kidnapping. They never found the killer.
The circumstances of Gustav Hartung’s disappearance are different, luckily, and there are still grounds for optimism. Detectives are currently interviewing Asger Neergaard’s colleagues at the ministry and at Christiansborg, while others are doing the same for Benedikte Skans at the Rigshospital. So far nobody can say where the couple might have fled with the boy, but it is too soon to rule out the possibility. The news is filled with images of Gustav Hartung, which will make it harder for the kidnappers to travel with him in public. That’s both good and bad. Good because most citizens will soon be able to recognize Gustav Hartung and inform the authorities if they catch sight of him. Bad because it will put intense pressure on the kidnappers, and there is always a chance that might lead to a fatal decision made in the heat of the moment. The issue was a matter of fierce discussion among senior officers and intelligence agents, but in the end it proved moot: the Hartung family insisted on putting out an alert for the boy, silencing all debate. Hess understands their decision perfectly. One year ago the family had gone through a nightmare from which they’ve barely woken up, and now a fresh one has begun. No avenue can be left unexplored. Beside him he hears Thulin’s impatient voice addressing Genz, who is in the middle of updating them from his post at the Forensics Department via the loudspeaker on Nylander’s mobile phone, which is lying on the table.
‘But there’s no news on tracing their phones?’
‘Nope. Neither Benedikte Skans nor Asger Neergaard have had their phones switched on since 4.17 p.m. this afternoon, which I think we can assume was the time of the kidnapping. It’s possible they have other unregistered phones, but we can’t –’
‘What about iPads or laptops from their home? There was at least one iPad and a Lenovo laptop, and there might be digital receipts for flights, ferries, trains. Or any credit-card charges?’
‘As I say, we haven’t found anything useful yet. It’ll take a little while to access the deleted files on the Lenovo, because it’s been damaged and –’
‘So you haven’t checked shit. Genz, we don’t have time for this! If there are deleted files on the Lenovo, all you need to do is run them through a recovery programme. I mean, for Christ’s sake –’
‘Thulin, Genz knows what he’s doing. Genz, tell me as soon as you find something.’
‘Of course. Back to the grindstone.’
Nylander hangs up and puts the phone back in his pocket. Thulin is standing like a boxer who’s just been told she isn’t allowed into the ring.
‘Anything else? We’re moving on,’ continues Nylander.
Jansen slides his notepad forward on the table.
‘I’ve spoken to the psych hospital in Roskilde. Nothing we can use here and now, but there’s no doubt Benedikte Skans has had a screw loose for a while since the child’s death. One of the consultants insists the woman made a full recovery during her stay, but she can’t rule out the possibility of violent behaviour. Great, thanks. That’s so reassuring when you bear in mind that Skans works on a paediatric ward.’
‘So no idea where she is. What about Asger Neergaard?’
‘Ex-soldier, thirty years old, deployed to Afghanistan as a driver twice with Battle Groups 7 and 11. Decent record, but when you start asking former comrades at the barracks you hear that some of them thought he left the military for reasons beyond simply getting sick of it.’
‘Spell it out.’
‘Some of them said he was getting shaky hands and avoiding contact with others. Developed a temper, got aggressive, plus a few other signs of PTSD, although he was certainly never treated for it. How Intelligence could have approved him as a ministerial driver is beyond me, and I imagine a head or two will roll.’
‘But nobody you spoke to knows where he might be?’
‘Nope. Nor the mother. At least, she’s not saying so.’
‘Then we call a halt to the meeting here and keep going. We’ve got bugger all, and that’s not good enough. There’s no doubt about the motive in the Hartung case, so we need to focus all our energies on finding the boy. For the time being we’ll divert resources from the enquiry into the four murders they committed, just until the boy is safe and sound.�
��
‘If they committed the murders.’
It’s the first time Hess has spoken during the meeting, and Nylander looks at him as though he were a stranger at the door, wanting to come inside. Hess continues before the door slams shut.
‘So far there’s nothing concrete at the couple’s property to indicate they’re responsible for the killings. They sent Rosa Hartung death threats and they planned and carried out the kidnapping of her son. But there’s nothing there about the three female victims, and Asger Neergaard has an alibi for at least one of the murders – according to Intelligence, while Anne Sejer-Lassen was being murdered he was standing with Rosa Hartung and her secretary in a courtyard near the ministry.’
‘But Benedikte Skans wasn’t.’
‘No, but that doesn’t necessarily mean she killed Anne Sejer-Lassen. Anyway, what would their motive have been?’
‘I don’t want to hear any more rambling defences of your visit to Linus Bekker. Benedikte Skans and Asger Neergaard are our prime suspects, and we’ll discuss your little excursion later.’
‘But I’m not trying to defend –’
‘Hess, if you and Thulin had spent your time sensibly on the case files at the ministry you might have got to Skans and Neergaard sooner, in which case Gustav Hartung wouldn’t have been abducted! Do you get what I’m saying here?’
Hess goes quiet. He’s been thinking the same thing himself, and for a moment he feels guilty, even though he knows it isn’t justified. Nylander leaves the room, Jansen and the rest of them at his heels, while Thulin picks up her coat from the chair behind her.
‘Right now, what matters is finding the boy. If they didn’t commit the murders, we’ll figure out who did.’
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Hess watches her walk down the corridor, then he peers through the panes of glass at the detectives scuttling diligently around with the energy and purpose that takes hold when a case is nearing its conclusion. Yet Hess can’t share that feeling. He feels as though the puppets’ strings are still hanging from the ceiling, and when he stands up it is to go outside and get some fresh air.
92
Asger isn’t normally bothered by the dark. His eyes adjust rapidly, and he usually feels calm and in control, even when driving at high speed in the pouring rain, as he is now.
In Afghanistan he’d really come to enjoy night driving. When troops or supplies had to be transported from one camp to the next, it sometimes happened after sundown, and although Asger’s fellow drivers associated those trips with danger, it had always struck him differently. Anyway, he loved being behind the wheel. It was like his mind grew hushed, and his field of vision transformed with the rhythm of the new surroundings. But in Afghanistan he’d learned he liked night driving best. Even though there was less to look at. The darkness had felt protective, bringing a calm and a balance he otherwise lacked; but it doesn’t feel like that now. The inky road is surrounded by dense forest on both sides, and although he can barely see it, he feels as though danger might lurch out of the blackness at any moment and swallow him whole. He feels his skin prickle and the pressure in his ears increase, and as he steps on the accelerator it’s as if he’s trying to escape his own shadow.
There have been police blockades everywhere, and they’ve had to change direction constantly. First they’d made for the port at Gedser, then the Swedish ferry at Helsingør, but both times they’d been overtaken by police cars with sirens blaring, and it wasn’t hard to guess their destination. Right now Asger has set a course for Sjællands Odde, where ferries leave from the tip of the peninsula. The Great Belt Bridge seems too obvious and thus out of the question, but Asger hopes the ferry to Jutland might be unguarded, although he knows it’s unlikely. His head whirrs with thoughts about what they should do if that road too is blocked, but he has no next step, and Benedikte is sitting taciturn and gloomy in the passenger seat.
Asger hadn’t been in favour of bringing the little shit along, but it hadn’t been up for discussion. He understands. If they just gave up then the whole thing would have been a farce; and the minister bitch would never understand what it was she’d done. It’s only right that she should go through hell too, and Asger has no moral qualms about kidnapping the boy, who only has his mother to thank for the fact that he’s now being flung about in the back of the van.
Asger slams on the brakes. For a moment he feels the van skid out of control on the slippery asphalt, until he eases off and straightens the vehicle. Further down the road he can see the glare of blue lights among the dripping trees, and although he can’t see the squad cars he knows they’ll be waiting by yet another blockade after the next bend. Pulling over, he slows down until the van rolls to a stop.
‘What the hell are we doing?’
Benedikte doesn’t respond. Asger turns around and begins racing back towards the road, talking loudly through their options.
When she finally speaks, it isn’t what he’s been expecting. ‘Go into the forest. Next turning.’
‘Why? What’re we doing in there?’
‘Turn off into the forest, I said.’
When they reach the next exit, Asger turns off into the forest, and soon they are driving down a smaller, bumpy gravel road. Then he understands what she wants. Benedikte has realized, of course, that they are surrounded, so now they are doing the only sensible thing: retreating as far as possible into the woods so they can wait for the storm to pass. Asger had been the soldier, so it should’ve been him to think of it, but as ever it’s Benedikte who has a way out. After they’ve been driving for three or four minutes, before the forest is quite thick enough for Asger’s liking, she asks him abruptly to stop the van.
‘No, not yet. We need to get further in. They’ll see us if they –’
‘Stop the van. Stop the van now!’
Asger brakes, and the vehicle jars to a halt. He switches off the engine but leaves the headlights on. Benedikte sits still for a moment. He can’t see her face, only hear her breathing and the rain on the roof. She opens the glove compartment and takes something out before opening the van door.
‘What are you doing? We don’t have time to stop here!’
Benedikte’s door slams, and for a moment Asger sits in the cabin, listening to the echo of his own voice. In the beam of the headlights he sees her walk around the front of the van, and as she turns to pass his door he opens it instinctively and climbs out.
‘What are you doing?’
Benedikte slips past him, reaching determinedly for the sliding door to the inside of the van. Asger catches a glimmer of the sharp object in her right hand, and remembers he’d left his military knife in the glove compartment that morning when he picked up the van from Hertz. It dawns on him what she wants, and although it surprises him that he has feelings for the little bastard after all, he grabs Benedikte. He feels how strong she is, how much she wants this.
‘Let me go! Let me go, I told you!’
They grapple in the dark, and Asger feels the knife cut him somewhere in the groin as she tries to rip herself free.
‘He’s just a boy! He’s not the one who did anything to us!’
Gradually he manages to pull her close. Her arms go limp and she begins to sob. The tears overpower her, and Asger doesn’t know how long they stand there in the forest, but it feels like an eternity. It’s the best moment in a long time. He knows Benedikte has realized the same thing as him. The forces arrayed against them are too great, but they still have each other. He can’t see her face, but her tears ebb away, and he takes the knife from her hand and chucks it on to the ground.
‘We’ll let the boy out. It’s easier if it’s just us two, and as soon as he’s found the cops will ease off a bit. Okay?’
Asger is sure it will work out for them now, now he can feel her body so close to his. He strokes her face and kisses her tears away, feeling her nod and snivel. She’s still clinging to his hand, and with the other he reaches to pull the sliding door aside. If the boy is told wh
at direction to walk, he’ll reach the police blockade in a few hours, and that will give Asger and Benedikte the time they need.
It’s the noise that makes Asger pause and glance around watchfully in the dark. The distant sound of an approaching engine. He looks back down the way they’ve come, still holding Benedikte’s hand. Approximately fifty yards away a set of car headlights are reflected in the puddles on the road, and soon he and Benedikte are bathed in light, blinking. The car stops, and after the driver has observed them for a moment, the engine and then the headlights are switched off.
It’s now utterly dark on the road. A thousand thoughts explode inside Asger’s head. First he thinks it’s an unmarked police car, but the police wouldn’t be so calm in a situation like this, and for an instant he thinks it might be a farmer or a forestry official. Then it strikes him that the only reason anybody would be driving up the gravel road at this hour is to find them. But nobody can have seen them turn into the woods, and he’d made sure ages ago that their phones couldn’t be traced.
Asger feels Benedikte’s hand tense in his, and when he hears a car door open he asks a question in the dark that goes unanswered.
‘Who is it?’ repeats Asger. From the approaching footsteps he realizes he’ll find out soon enough, and immediately he bends to pick up the knife from the grass.
93
Thulin empties the rubbish on to two newspaper inserts on the kitchen floor, then takes a fork from the drawer and begins to root through it. She wears latex gloves, and the smell of rotten food, cigarette butts and tinned goods is acrid in her nostrils as she unfolds the soiled receipts, hoping they’ll reveal where the couple have fled. Genz and the Forensics techs had already gone through the whole place earlier that day, but Thulin prefers to do her own spot tests. Yet she finds nothing. Only everyday items bought at the supermarket, as well as dry-cleaning receipts, presumably from the clothes Asger Neergaard wore when he drove Rosa Hartung. Thulin leaves the rubbish on the inserts. She’s in the habitable part of the old slaughterhouse, and apart from her and a few patrol units watching the buildings from a slight distance, the place is empty. So far she has to admit Genz and his people have done their jobs flawlessly. There is nothing here to indicate that the young couple have any other place to stay, nor any sign they’d planned escape routes or alternative hideouts. Earlier that day they’d confirmed that one of the cold stores in the old abattoir had been kitted out with a mattress on the floor, a quilt, a portable toilet and a few Donald Duck magazines – it seems clear that this is where they’d intended to keep Gustav Hartung.
The Chestnut Man Page 29