Peter followed. The dog grew increasingly agitated. Then he started to whine.
It crossed his mind that if they found what he thought they would find, a lot would change. He wouldn’t be able to continue on his own. Not that he could, anyway. Who did he actually think he was, some kind of self-appointed avenger and protector?
Help us, Peter. You help yourself.
He hadn’t helped anyone. On the contrary. If he could have persuaded Sister Beatrice to go to the police, things would have looked very different now.
The dog barked. From a distance, Peter could see sand being sprayed into the air and Kaj’s tail swishing from side to side as if he was digging into a fox’s earth.
‘No, Kaj! That’s enough!’
The movements stopped. Peter plodded up the dune. At first he thought it might be an animal, possibly a fleeing deer smashed to pulp by a car. But then he saw that the gory mess was a human being. Some protruding flesh turned out to be a hand. A foot was just a clump of blood. But the worst was the face: the nose was missing and a crater in one cheek was so deep that he could see the white cheekbone and half the teeth.
The dog looked anxiously at Peter and whined.
‘Sit, Kaj.’
He crept close to Peter’s left leg. Peter took out his mobile and entered Mark Bille Hansen’s number.
Peter looked at his watch. It was four thirty. He sat down on the sand and waited. His mobile rang soon afterwards, but his first reaction was to ignore it. Bad news rarely came alone. But the ringing was insistent and he answered the phone to stop the noise.
‘Peter.’
‘Peter, Ida here.’
He had to turn the name over in his mind to remember who she was. His visit to the mink farm seemed like the distant past.
‘My dad told me you came to see him.’
‘Oh yes?’
His reply came slowly. He tried to pull himself together.
‘How are you, Ida? I was sorry to hear about the brutal attack.’
‘Oh, my dad’s exaggerating. I’m all right. Listen. I have some information for you, or the police, or whoever needs to know. I don’t want to go it alone any more.’
He couldn’t take any more information. Or any more people who wanted him to do something that had nothing to do with him. Nonetheless, he said:
‘OK. What have you got?’
He listened to how, through patience and ingenuity, she had managed to contact a group of women activists online and what she now knew about their forthcoming actions.
‘And you’re quite sure this isn’t a hoax?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘They suspect you’re a spy,’ Peter said. ‘You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Take it easy. My source is reliable.’
‘But how . . .?’
Ida laughed modestly.
‘Let’s just say I’m good with computers. My boyfriend is an IT nerd.’
Ida the hacker. Peter had to shake his head to get the image to fit. But she sounded convincing. He hoped her tone had rubbed off on him a bit when soon afterwards he heard sirens and steeled himself to tell Mark Bille about the forthcoming raid.
59
‘I HOPE THE intelligence from your spy is sound. Otherwise, you’ll be in trouble.’
Mark delivered his rant and looked at his watch. It was midnight. He wished the moon would go in, but there it hung, pale and insistent. He hoped it wouldn’t give away their positions, or those of the two other teams from Grenå police who were on duty on this windblown, icy November night. Even the cloud cover had failed them.
‘I’ve got enough trouble as it is,’ said the man next to him.
Mark nodded in the dusk. It was nine hours since he had arrived at Fjellerup and had found the body of Victor Nimb in the dunes and a taciturn Peter Boutrup and his dog. Now they were sitting in Mark’s police car with the windows rolled down so that they could hear anyone coming. It was parked behind some bushes.
They sat for a while in silence. Then Peter asked:
‘Had he been garrotted?’
Mark nodded.
‘It looks like it.’
‘Then the rest must have been a fox or a dog?’
‘We presume so, but the autopsy will tell us.’
He turned to Peter. ‘Your dog wouldn’t have had time to do it, would it?’
Peter shook his head.
‘No, he didn’t touch the body. And he didn’t have blood around his mouth, either.’
‘Then it must have been a fox,’ Mark concluded.
Once he had been called to a case where a dog was on its own with its dead owner. It was the most disfigured corpse he had ever seen, but the body in the dunes came a close second.
Peter Boutrup touched his arm.
‘Listen.’
Mark heard the faint sound of a car approaching. Then another one. He spoke into the police radio.
‘We have lift-off. Now remember. We need to catch them with tools in their hands and mink shit on their boots. Nobody move until I say so.’
An affirmative came back from the other two teams. Working with the owner of the mink farm – it was his second visitation by activists this year – they had put up 100-watt lamps at either end of the cages and concealed two further police vehicles on the property. Eight colleagues were ready to apprehend the black-clad activists.
The activists – if indeed it was them – drove carefully and without lights. Mark heard the engines being turned off about a hundred metres away. And then they heard something else: four thousand mink stirring anxiously inside their wire cages.
In the few seconds that passed, Mark thought back to the afternoon. Images flickered past his eyes: the dead boy in the dune. Boutrup and his dog keeping watch by the body, so that they could barely get to it. Anna Bagger’s arrival, along with the CSOs and the pathologist, Sara Dreyer. Anna’s questioning of Boutrup and his subsequent account of the network of women he suspected: activists who set mink free. A cause Mark had some sympathy for, but which possibly had a connection with the killings.
And that was why they had staged this ambush, hoping to catch the women, like cowboys ambushing a herd of cattle. Bit of a long shot, one might justifiably say. But they had nothing and needed even a minor breakthrough, which was why Anna Bagger had agreed to let them go ahead.
‘In a way I understand them,’ Mark said as they waited, listening for footsteps in the darkness. ‘Life in a cage is no life at all.’
Peter Boutrup sighed out loud.
‘But that’s not what this is about.’
‘So you say. But if they know there might be a connection between the killings and the mink, why didn’t they call off tonight’s raid?’
‘Perhaps because they don’t accept that there is a connection,’ Peter said. ‘Perhaps because it was too late to cancel. I imagine a raid like this takes careful planning.’
Or perhaps because the two things really did have absolutely nothing to do with each other, Mark thought, but instead he said:
‘Here they come.’
They fell silent and listened. The footsteps were almost noiseless and they were approaching at speed. Mark wondered how many there were. On Henrik Hansen’s mink farm they had released half of his six thousand mink and the cages had been opened with bolt cutters. That kind of thing took time. He guessed there were at least ten; twice as many as Peter Boutrup could name.
He froze. Peter yanked his arm. They were here. He could see the figures dressed in black now and prayed they wouldn’t spot the cars. Then he heard the sound of bolt cutters going into action and cages creaking as they were forced open.
He looked at Peter. They nodded to each other. Then he whispered into the police radio on his jacket collar:
‘OK. Olsen and Nyborg, go down to their cars.’
He looked at his watch. He let a minute pass to give the men time to reach the activists’ cars and immobilise them so they could not be used for a quick getaway. There was no other
form of transport in the countryside at this time of night. They would catch all the activists, of that he was sure. Then he took a deep breath and said:
‘Remember, we don’t want any casualties or fatalities, and no one draws a service pistol unless their life is in danger.’
He paused for a few seconds, then said:
‘OK, switch on the lights.’
60
PETER SQUINTED INTO the sharp light that pierced the night within a millisecond and revealed the scene in front of them.
The whole thing was like a Theatre of the Absurd production in a foreign country. People dressed in black darted around trying to escape the spotlight and the police. Escaping mink ran between the cages, their eyes caught in the light. Mark was out of his car at once. Everywhere there was screaming and shouting, female voices mingling with the men’s; some of those dressed in black were pushed to the ground between the cages; others resisted vigorously, yelling and kicking and biting to get free. Tools were hurled away in an attempt to dispose of forensic evidence.
Peter took another look around. He walked up and down the rows of cages with only one purpose. He would be able to recognise her, he was sure of it. Even if she wore camouflage clothing and had a balaclava over her head. He could find her with his eyes closed and that was why he had come. They had given him permission to be here. He had pleaded with them. It was his operation, and Bella was his. Out of nowhere came a blow to the stomach region and he was almost knocked over by a fleeing activist. He reeled and made a grab for the figure, but it sped off, away from the floodlights and into the darkness.
‘Let’s get out of here. That way,’ he heard.
‘Bloody cops. Knock them down,’ someone called out.
Chaos still reigned. The activists were more militant than he had expected. He saw one of Mark’s officers with a gash to his forehead and another lying on the ground being bludgeoned by a pair of bolt cutters in an activist’s hands until she was overpowered by another officer.
‘Get them into vehicles as quick as you can.’
It was Mark who was shouting. Then, suddenly, the light was out and darkness enveloped them.
‘They’ve cut the power. Turn on the car headlights,’ Mark shouted.
Confusion seemed total until the headlights lit up the scene somewhat less effectively.
‘Fuck it!’
‘Nick them!’
‘Ruuun!’
The air was filled with voices, the sound of footsteps and orders. Some activists were still cutting wire. Then he spotted her. She stood there completely still, caught in a beam of light from Mark’s car. Elfin and delicate and with her eyes darting round on all sides. She had a pair of bolt cutters in one hand, hanging down by her side. Her chest heaved and sank as if she had been running. Now she looked bewildered. He would have recognised her anywhere.
‘Bella!’
She turned her face in his direction. A whole second passed with them just staring at each other. And then she ran, sprinting off with long, gravity-defying strides.
He burst into a run, but she was fast and soon out of sight until he saw her further ahead. She had no chance of getting away, but she was fired up with adrenaline and her legs were going like egg whisks.
‘Bella, wait! Stop, damn you!’
But she didn’t. He didn’t know what she expected or hoped, but she was like a will o’ the wisp, both existing and not existing at the same time. An elf maiden dressed in black with the ability to disappear and allow herself to be swallowed up by nature. My, he thought. My as she could have been. As she was when you peeled everything away. This was what My would have wanted to be: a defender of animals, a champion of the doomed. Somehow it made sense, and he saw the clear resemblance between mother and daughter.
Then he heard something a great deal more human. A stumble, a groan and sobbing. He went closer. She was lying in a ditch, looking up at him. There was defiance in her eyes, and for a moment he felt the shame of the hunter.
He hesitated for a second. Then he knelt down by the ditch and tentatively held out his hand to her.
‘Come on, Bella. I’m not going to hurt you.’
She didn’t move. She just stared at him, her body trembling.
‘It’s OK. I know you’re doing this for the best of reasons.’
Then there was some movement. He felt her skin against his as she reached out her hand and he helped her up.
He got her into his car, which was parked further down the road. The raid appeared to be nearing its end. Mark seemed pleased.
‘You can have her. I promise. We’ve got the others,’ he said. ‘Except Brask. She’s too smart to get her hands dirty.’
‘Anni Toftegaard?’
Mark shook his head.
‘No, we haven’t got her either. Nor Ulla Vang. But Ketty Nimb is here. Now I finally know why we couldn’t find her and tell her Victor was dead.’
Mark shook his head and looked at Peter.
‘You’ve been right so far. I wonder if you’re right about all this having a connection with the killings?’
Peter looked over to his car, where Bella was sitting with her head resting against the window.
‘We’ll see. But there has to be a link.’
‘An angry mink farmer goes berserk and kills activist children?’
Mark’s voice sounded sceptical. Peter repeated what he had said.
‘We’ll see.’
61
KIR WAITED IN her car some distance from Jeanette’s house.
Kasper Frandsen was inside. Yet again, she had followed him from Veggerslev. He had been there for two hours now and it was past midnight.
Her stomach was tied in knots. This time the children were at home. They were four and six. She felt like running up the garden path, kicking down the door and dragging the husband down to the police station before he could beat them up or worse.
But she had to be patient. She wanted to expose him as a killer, that was her plan. It all fitted. A sobbing Jeanette had told her he had a previous conviction for assault and one for rape. True, it was a long time ago now, but God only knew what crimes could have gone undetected in the meantime.
And then there was his presence at the harbour: an obvious opportunity for him to sabotage the fishing boat and to meet Nils, which had clearly triggered something in him. It didn’t take much to set some people off. Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Morten’s description had been apt. Morten who, under duress, had promised to help her.
She needed his help with another matter, but she hadn’t dared mention it yet. Off the coast of Læsø, forty-five metres down, the Marie af Grenå still lay at the bottom of the sea. A second look at the boat wouldn’t do any harm. If she discovered the propeller had been sabotaged or that Kasper had tampered with some other vital element, that might be enough to convict him. But for that she needed a safe dive, a reliable diving partner and favourable weather conditions, and for the time being she was on sick leave and the mine divers had gone back to Kongsøre.
This was where she had imagined Morten could come into the picture. So far it was only an idea that was taking shape in her head, but it would be good to nail that bonehead Kasper Frandsen and to hand him over to Mark, from whom she had heard nothing. At least, she had thought, they had been on the same wavelength regarding the bones in the box, but now he seemed to be going solo.
Just as she was thinking that, the door to the house was opened and Kasper Frandsen stormed out with his fists clenched, shouting and waving them threateningly at the woman who quickly shut the door after him.
‘You fucking bitch!’ the street echoed. ‘I hope you bloody choke on your own spittle!’
Kir looked up as he stomped over to his car, started it and pulled out with the headlights on full. For a moment she was caught in the beams as they swept across her and the red pickup, which wasn’t exactly the most inconspicuous vehicle on the planet. She hoped he hadn’t seen her.
She waited until he was out of sight
, then she got out of the pickup, walked up the garden path and knocked softly on the door. Jeanette let her in, her hair and clothes a mess and her lips swollen from punches.
‘That bastard. Come on, let me put some iodine on that.’
‘Thank God the kids are asleep. I don’t think they heard anything.’
Kir nodded. ‘Yeah, right, and I’m the Queen of Sheba,’ she muttered. Of course, the children had heard everything. They would be huddled up, hugging each other, until it was all over.
With a bit of help from Jeanette, Kir located the first-aid kit. She dabbed Jeanette’s lips.
‘I’ve got what you wanted,’ Jeanette said after Kir had finished. ‘I hid them while he was in the shower. He always has a shower. He says I’m gross and that he’ll probably catch something off me. He calls me a slag.’
Kir watched Jeanette from a distance. She wondered what it would be like to be humiliated like that. It was unimaginable to her. She was a soldier, trained for battle, to defend herself and others. It was beyond her comprehension – even after Jeanette explained that otherwise he would take it out on the children – how anyone could submit to such brutal sexual violence and listen to the degrading, demeaning words that came out of the mouth of such a monster. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Morten’s warning rang out: Be very careful. Women like her can do a complete volte face. Before you know it, she’s stabbing you in the back and defending the only person she knows: her husband.
Perhaps Morten was right. What did she know? But evidence was still evidence and she intended to collect some.
Jeanette got up on wobbly legs and staggered into the bedroom. She returned with a bag which she handed to Kir.
Jeanette touched her throat.
‘He loves it. He loves playing executioner and victim. It’s what he lives for.’
Kir looked into the bag. It contained the neck brace and the handcuffs.
Dead Souls Page 27