‘No. A halberd,’ Matti corrected himself.
‘Ah yes, that’s it. A musket, a halberd and a crossbow.’
He could practically hear Matti scratching his head.
‘And you’ve looked it up on the internet?’
‘The problem is I don’t know what I’m looking for. Do you have any ideas?’
After further consideration Matti decided that he hadn’t.
‘But perhaps a military historian might know.’
Matti didn’t happen to know any military historians, of course, but he did know a guy in Ebeltoft, who once upon a time had been a commando and was now running rehabilitation programmes for ex-offenders.
‘The two have a lot in common,’ Matti yawned down the phone. ‘It’s all shut up and do as you’re told. Which is what you want when you get out of prison.’
It most certainly wasn’t what Peter had wanted when he had been given back his freedom. No one would tell him to shut up and do as he was told ever again. But that was another matter.
He got the guy’s name and phone number. After talking to Jutta – Manfred’s condition was still unchanged – he started ringing round to find a replacement for Manfred and another carpenter, so that they could keep on top of the jobs in the order book. Then he took the dog for a walk, went to work and grafted until the afternoon, when he drove to Ebeltoft.
It was a place to start, he thought as he drove. A tiny flap he might be able to lift to get a glimpse of the mystery he had got himself mixed up in: Melissa, Manfred, and now Bella’s missing son. He hadn’t promised to find him, but the link to Alice Brask touched a nerve somewhere. Everything was connected, Bella had said. But why would a runaway boy and a murdered nun have anything in common just because they used to play together as children?
Bella was a canny manipulator, he had discovered. And now she had succeeded in drawing him in and getting him to agree.
The name of the commando was Sigurd Banner and he trained ex-offenders in a wooded area with a brook near a summer house development behind Ebeltoft. It was getting dark and thick clouds were gathering above them as Peter drove into the yard. He could just make out some barracks and an assault course with red wooden obstacles, which looked like the kind of thing you saw on TV. There were obstacles to be surmounted using your arms, there were ditches to cross, posts to climb, barriers, rafts, ropes, streams and a climbing wall, which wasn’t for the fainthearted. He counted seven people in grey tracksuits doing the training, including two girls with swinging ponytails and bouncing breasts.
A man who had to be Sigge himself – that was the name Matti had used – was standing with a whistle around his neck shouting out words of encouragement to the hard-working participants.
‘Shift your ass, Sonja! Come on, folks. You can do it!’
Sigge was the desert rat incarnate with bulging biceps and bull neck. He was wearing full camouflage gear.
Matti had obviously kept his word and warned Sigge, because he held up his hand in greeting and spread five fingers when he saw Peter.
‘Five minutes. We just want to finish the circuit,’ he called out in a commando voice.
Peter signalled that he would wait. He sat down on a tree stump and looked on as the participants sweated and strained in front of him. It was clear that the exercise was about teamwork. Helping one another was what gave good results. Until the whistle sounded and the participants collapsed in a heap.
Sigge clapped his hands and praised them.
‘Well done! In for a shower now and get changed. Chop-chop!’
Most of them ran inside the barracks. Sigge came over and shook hands with Peter.
‘Matti called. He said you had a puzzle for me.’
He winked, and wrinkles from a life spent outdoors gathered around his eye.
‘I can’t resist a good puzzle, so fire away.’
Peter took the rosary out of his pocket.
‘It’s this symbol here at the end.’
Sigge took the rosary and scrutinised it. For a moment, he seemed lost to the world.
‘Here. I’ve made a sketch.’
Peter took out a piece of paper and handed it to Sigge, who took it and studied the drawing. He looked up, clearly fascinated by the puzzle.
‘Can I hold on to it for a couple of days?’
‘Of course.’
Sigge waved the paper. ‘It’s definitely a military symbol, but I need to do some more digging.’
He folded the drawing neatly and put it in his pocket.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something. Now, please excuse me. I’ve got to go and keep an eye on the miscreants.’
Peter watched him as he crossed the exercise circuit with long, confident strides, his arms down by his sides. So much had happened recently, all of it shit, and he felt he was being forced into a direction he didn’t want to go. But, for the first time in days, he finally felt as if he was making some headway. This was going to pay off.
His good mood lasted all the way home to the cliff, where he turned off the engine and got out of the car in the dark.
He sensed a shadow behind him and heard the crunch of boots on gravel, then an arm grabbed him around his neck and squeezed. It took only a few seconds for his body to hark back to the days when being assaulted was an everyday occurrence. His brain slipped into autopilot as he wriggled out of the grip and launched a kick into the ribs of his attacker – a man, and a big one at that – followed by an upper cut which audibly crunched into the man’s jaw and produced a grunt. But this guy was no pushover and a knee into Peter’s crotch left him doubled up on the gravel. He reached out for the man’s leg, but let go when a kick to his kidney made him see a cartoon-style moon and stars. Again he reached out and this time managed to drag the man down with him. They rolled around in the gravel, and he got hold of a fleshy face and pressed his fingers into the man’s eyes. Then he felt hands around his neck and thoughts of Melissa’s encounter with the garrotte made him sweat and fight extra hard. But not for long. Another knee to the groin and a punch to his kidney region sent him into a darkness blacker than the one they were already in.
‘That’ll teach you not to poke your nose into other people’s business,’ the stranger’s voice said.
Before he lost consciousness, he was vaguely aware of the man searching his pockets. The last thing he heard was the dog barking inside the house and a car starting up and driving away from the cliff.
25
LISE WERGE WAS waiting.
To pass the time, she pulled a newspaper out of her handbag. There were stories about the dead girl at the convent and a scaffolding accident at the same place. A man was in hospital. His condition was no longer critical, but between the lines the article hinted that his life was as good as ruined.
She put the newspaper to one side. She didn’t like the sneaking sense of uncertainty that could suddenly steal over her. Not for the first time in the last few days, she wished she had married Claude, moved to France with him and started a new life there.
But Claude’s patience had run out and she had ended up with Jens Erik and a house in Veggerslev close to her family. It was the biggest mistake of her life.
She heard a lock click and the door opened. Lone entered wearing jeans and a navy blue, close-fitting jacket; she was petite and shapely with a trim waist and attractive pert breasts. Lone was one of the lucky few in the family who had escaped a turkey neck and saggy skin. She looked more like the board member of a major company than a prisoner.
‘Hi, Sis!’
Lise got up and they hugged each other. Lone’s gold earring scratched her cheek. She sat down on the sofa next to Lise and took both her hands in hers.
‘How nice of you to come.’
A visit to Lone in prison was a stark contrast to visiting her mother. The latter was pure duty. The former was usually a pleasure. The fact that her sister, who was younger by two years, had killed her husband didn’t diminish the pleasure. Laust had been an
asshole. Of course, that didn’t make it right to get him senselessly drunk and hold a pillow over his head, but there were mitigating circumstances. And blood was thicker than water, as her mother always pointed out. However, this didn’t prevent the unpleasant newspaper articles having a lingering effect on Lise and complicating the visit.
‘How exciting! And what have you brought me today?’
Intelligent eyes scanned the presents Lise had spread across the table: magazines and books. Lone’s thirst for knowledge knew no bounds. While in prison she had already taken a bachelor’s degree in law and was well on her way to a master’s. The other presents – the novels – were just to pass the time.
‘No sweets or chocolate?’
‘You always say you can’t have them, that you’re watching your figure.’
The smile made her face even prettier.
‘Then it has to be true, if I said so myself.’
Lone sifted through the books on the table, her small hands rapidly examining the treasures. Gold glittered on every finger.
‘Yum, nice easy reading,’ she said, looking at Lise with a mischievous smile. ‘Buy two get one free?’
‘Something like that,’ Lise admitted. ‘I can’t afford to keep you in leather-bound first editions.’
‘Føtex?’
‘Bilka. They practically give them away with the groceries.’
Lone studied the titles and nodded her approval. She chuckled with contentment from somewhere deep in her throat, and Lise knew that she had hit the bullseye with her purchases. It was a good starting point for the real reason for her visit.
‘Mum sends her love.’
‘How is she?’
‘She’s getting old.’
‘She’ll never grow old. She’s a sly one, she is.’
Lone was already absorbed in the first chapter of a Norwegian family saga. She turned the crisp pages.
‘She has decided to dictate our family history to me,’ Lise said.
Lone looked up from the book and slapped it against her thigh with a loud laugh.
‘I thought it was my job to write a portrait of the family. We managed over one hundred pages . . .’
Lise picked up a book as well and flicked through it randomly. The paper was cheap and the cover flimsy, but so what? It was the contents that mattered when you were rotting inside these walls and you had only your imagination.
‘Are you saying there’s already a draft?’
‘Of course.’
‘Where?’
‘Hmm. Let me see . . .’
Lone adopted her secretive smile as she pretended to be interested in the blurb on one of the books in the pile.
‘I wonder if I can remember?’
‘Lone!’
Lone adjusted her hair. She had always been vain. She smiled, and suddenly Lise wondered if loving your family was in fact that healthy. It had never happened before, but now she looked at Lone’s hands and saw them squeezing the life out of another human being. A bastard, admittedly. But still a human being.
‘Perhaps it’s in the attic in the Woodland Snail. After all, it was some years ago, and we never finished it.’
‘Why not?’
Lise regretted her question immediately.
‘Yes, why do you think?’
The reply was caustic. An awkward silence ensued until Lone said:
‘Well, at least coffee doesn’t make you fat. Shall I go and get some?’
Suddenly Lise couldn’t stand the thought of eating or drinking away from home. She braced herself, produced the newspaper and placed it in front of Lone.
‘Have you read what happened at St Mary’s?’
Lone didn’t even glance at the newspaper. She looked Lise in the eye until Lise dropped her gaze.
‘Of course,’ Lone said eventually. ‘A terrible business.’
A terrible business. The words buzzed round Lise’s head and gave her a headache.
‘Do you know something, Lone?’
To her irritation, she could only manage a whisper. Lone’s lips pursed into a thin line and her face changed with lightning speed. This was another side to her sister. Terrifying, all-consuming evil.
‘And what would that be?’
Her tone threatened a confrontation now.
‘I don’t know . . . I can’t ask around, but . . .’
‘But what, sweetheart?’
Lise steeled herself.
‘Is he out? Is Simon out?’
Lone shook her head. She examined her nails and twirled a lock of hair around a finger.
‘I haven’t heard anything. Forget about it. It’s so many years ago.’
It worked every time. Lise felt deflated and her brief appearance as the confident sister was over.
Lone folded up the newspaper and stuffed it in the bin. Again she put on her usual smile and patted Lise’s hand, which was lying limply in her lap.
‘There! Now we’ll say no more about it, will we?’
26
PETER WOKE TO the sound of the dog whining and its snout examining him all over. A paw gently scratched his sleeve. Then he heard a voice and felt hands the size of shovels slap his face from side to side.
‘Wake up! Peter!’
Searing pain shot through his body and collected in an explosion in his head. If only whoever it was would go away and leave him be. If only he wasn’t so bloody cold.
‘Peter, for Christ’s sake! Come on!’
It took forever before he could open his eyes just a fraction. But through the crack, he saw a figure crouching over him with a knobbly head, a badly patched-up cleft palate and eyes that were studying him.
‘Bronco?’
The giant’s face cracked into a familiar smile.
‘So he didn’t beat your brains out after all!’
‘Who?’
Bronco shook his head and blew out his cheeks. Water from his hair dripped down onto Peter’s face. He registered that it was raining. In fact, it was tipping down.
‘No idea. I found you a moment ago. I had a job for you but couldn’t reach you on your mobile.’
‘I’ve got a new one. What about Kaj?’
‘He was going crazy. He could see you lying out here. I found the key in your pocket and let him out.’ A memory shot through Peter, followed immediately by a tumble of questions.
He had returned from Ebeltoft and someone had been waiting for him in the darkness. Who? Did it have anything to do with the killings, or was it just his old enemies ambushing him? How long had he been lying here?
He tried to struggle onto his elbows but had to give up and slumped back. It was wet underneath him, he could feel that now. The gravel drive had turned into mud. And it was windy too. Then again, a storm had been forecast.
‘Here. Hold on. We’ll get you inside.’
Fortunately, Bronco wasn’t the type to call the police or an ambulance. Nor was he the sort to ask any questions. The giant slipped his arms under Peter and stood up effortlessly. The dog skipped around them as Peter was carried inside the house. Bronco laid him down on the sofa as carefully as if he had been a trained nurse and Peter was a sick slip of a child.
‘Right. Let’s get those wet clothes off you.’
Bronco started pulling shoes and socks off Peter, who tried to resist.
‘Don’t. I can do it myself,’ he groaned.
‘No, you bloody can’t,’ Bronco grunted. ‘Not in your state.’
It was futile. Bronco, who was a carpenter and sawed wood with bulging muscles, had other talents as well. In no time at all the wet clothes lay in a pile on the floor and Peter was dressed in a black tracksuit. The dog watched with interest.
‘Not a peep from you,’ Peter mumbled, pointing at Kaj, who lay down with his head on his paws and what looked suspiciously like a grin.
‘What the hell have you gone and got yourself mixed up in this time?’ Bronco said. ‘First the scaffolding and now this.’
‘At least he didn’t get i
nside the house,’ Peter said, remembering the unfamiliar voice and the warning.
‘I wonder what he wanted.’
Yes, what did he want? Then it came crashing down on him. Of course!
‘Hand me that pile.’
Bronco handed him the wet clothes. Peter searched every pocket.
‘It’s gone.’
‘What is?’
‘The rosary . . .’
‘What are you talking about? Have you turned to religion?’
Peter leaned back on the cushions and looked up at the ceiling.
‘It’s a long story.’
The mobile rang in his jacket pocket. Yet again, Bronco had to hand him a wet garment. Peter dug out the mobile.
‘Good evening, it’s Sigge.’
Peter suppressed a groan, but not for long, and he couldn’t help swearing whenever a sharp pain bored into his kidney.
‘Are you all right?’ Sigurd Banner said.
What kind of parallel universe was he living in? He was being nursed by a gigantic carpenter with hands the size of sledgehammers and now a commando was expressing concern about his well-being.
‘I’m all right,’ he declared and struggled up into a sitting position. ‘Go on.’
‘It turned out to be quite straightforward,’ Sigge said. ‘It’s the Legion’s flag.’
‘The Foreign Legion?’
‘Not the French one. Spanish.’
‘I had no idea there was a Spanish Foreign Legion.’
‘Very few people do,’ Sigge said. ‘And they stopped recruiting foreigners in 1984. Nevertheless, today they have approximately six thousand legionnaires. Some are stationed in old Spanish colonies. Others take part in modern wars: Afghanistan and Iraq. Their HQ is on the holiday island of Fuerteventura.’
‘OK . . .’
Peter had no idea how to respond to the information. Sigge continued.
‘At the time of Franco their motto was “Viva la muerte” – Long live death. They’re well known for worshipping death as a romantic ideal.’
Peter was about to ask if that didn’t apply to most soldiers, but held his tongue. Sigge clearly knew what he was talking about.
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