Instead, he whispered next to her hood:
‘Where are they?’
He saw her reaction: she shut her eyes tight and likewise her mouth. She tried to conceal her face by lowering her bowed head towards her folded hands.
‘You’ve used me.’
He said it aloud this time. The other nuns shifted uneasily.
Beatrice gathered up her habit, got to her feet and left the altar without a word and started walking down the aisle. He followed her.
When they reached the porch, he saw that her cheeks were flushed.
‘They’re in a safe place, Peter. We agreed it was better this way.’
‘We?’
‘Magnus,’ she said. ‘And his mother and her friend.’
Miriam, Peter thought. The nun and the whore. Together they had cooked up a dish consisting of outright lies and lies of omission – all in a good cause.
‘So Magnus is no longer on the run through fields and woods with his rucksack?’
He said it so aggressively that she flinched.
‘He and his mother contacted me yesterday. Melissa had told him about me and said he could trust me. They thought he and Ea-Louise would be safe here.’
Beatrice sent Peter a pleading look.
‘I couldn’t say no. For Melissa’s sake. So I agreed to hide them.’
‘But they made it look as if he was still drifting from place to place?’
‘It seemed logical to distract the killer’s attention in that way,’ Beatrice said. Miriam couldn’t have put it better herself.
‘And me? I was just a pawn in your game. A naive, trusting man whose job it was to keep looking for Magnus and so lead the murderer in the wrong direction.’
‘I never asked you to look for Magnus.’
He rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.
‘But you knew what Bella and Miriam were up to. The three of you concocted the whole thing together.’
‘Not until yesterday,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know Magnus had run away when you and I talked about Melissa.’
He put his face close to hers, hating her innocence and her purity. She was just another do-gooder. A champion of good intentions, who trailed catastrophe in her wake. He’d had enough of goodness. Better an honest villain than a dishonest angel, he thought. Better a prison than a convent.
‘Now you just listen to me, Beatrice,’ he said, and made every word count. ‘The news is that Magnus’s mother and Miriam, her friend, had an agenda. You in your naivety and blind trust didn’t know that. Their idea was to force me into the spotlight so that my enemies could get at me. But, oh no, you don’t want to soil your hands with that story, do you? You only lied with the best of intentions, didn’t you? For Magnus and out of love for Melissa . . .’
She flinched again. He could see she was confused and frightened. He reined himself in.
‘Well, never mind about all that,’ he sighed. ‘Tell me where they are, Magnus and Ea-Louise. They may not be as safe here as you think.’
‘I’ll take you there.’
She produced a key from the depths of her pocket.
‘They’re locked in, are they?’
‘It’s for their own good. Follow me.’
There were tunnels everywhere underneath the old convent and she knew them like the back of her hand. There were rooms for tools and storage; there were stone walls and floors so ancient they had to be a part of the original convent. It was dark and dank and smelled of humus and mould and insects rustling in the corners.
‘Here.’
They had walked for a long time and criss-crossed the crypts along narrow tunnels, lit only by a small lamp she had brought with her. He thought about his mobile, which could light up the dark. He also thought about his gun, which he had stuck into the lining of his trousers, and the Stanley knife he had used to cut off the biker’s ear. Still, he felt unarmed. He knew only too well that weapons weren’t always enough.
She knocked on a door, but there was no sound. Pressing her ear to the thick wooden door, she listened, then looked at him anxiously and held up the key. He pulled out his gun and saw the shock in her eyes. But it receded. She inserted the key into the lock and turned, but it didn’t catch. She tried the door. It wasn’t locked and there was light on the other side. Peter tried to stop her, but it was too late and she pushed open the door.
90
MARK COULDN’T SEE a thing. They had gone down into the chapel and had found one of the two routes to the crypt. Now they were standing at the very bottom of a shaft and were enveloped in darkness.
As he kicked the door open with a boot, the leader of the Armed Response Unit shouted:
‘This is the police! We’re armed!’
Mark gripped the handle of his service weapon. The door opened and they tumbled inside. The first armed officers screamed and shouted as they secured the room. Mark and Anna followed. A powerful cone of light cut through the darkness. Then he heard a sound and his cry got no further than his throat. It was the sound of a human being, a muffled, suppressed grunt from someone who was prevented from speaking.
‘Kir!’
He called out her name and got an answer in the form of a long, drawn-out warning. Then he saw her, caught like an animal in a trap on the high-backed chair, a copy of the one in the basement at the Woodland Snail. But there was no sign of Morten. He must have known the end was near and they would be looking for him and Kir. He had devised this as a kind of endgame.
Mark barely had time to blink. Everything happened at a frightening speed. The room was filled with the noise of the officers and Anna Bagger, who walked towards the garrotte with her arms outstretched while offering words of reassurance.
‘We’ll get you out, don’t worry.’
But then the warning cry came again, and Kir’s eyes jerked from side to side and he saw what the others had not yet seen.
‘Watch out!’
He had never used his lungs like this – it felt as if they would explode into atoms. His words reverberated around the room. Anna Bagger froze for a millisecond, but it was enough. ‘There’s a bomb!’
Total silence. Anna Bagger retreated.
‘Clear the room!’ she yelled. ‘Call the bomb squad.’
Damn her. Mark stepped forward. She tried to order him away.
‘Out, Mark. This isn’t our department.’
He ignored her. He approached the garrotte, carefully reached out his hand and said to Kir:
‘I’m going to take the gag out of your mouth, OK?’
Kir nodded. The iron ring around her neck was tight. He could see she was close to fainting. He did what he had said he would do. She moved her lips, but only a dry sound came out.
‘Take it easy now,’ he said.
She smiled wanly.
‘I’m afraid Batman was busy. And Superman has been eating kryptonite again . . . You’re stuck with me.’
She chuckled. Or croaked. He realised she had to hold her head up high and press it against the back of the chair in order not to be strangled.
‘What do you know about bombs?’ she wheezed.
‘Not a lot,’ he admitted. ‘But you know plenty. We’ll have to help each other.’
Meanwhile Anna Bagger herded the Armed Response Unit out of the crypt.
‘Check the time,’ Kir said in her distorted voice, trying to look out of the corner of her eyes. ‘There might be a timer.’
He searched, but couldn’t find anything.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘That makes sense. He’s made it motion-sensitive. If you get me out of the garrotte, and I stand up, it’ll go bang.’
He gulped. His throat was dry and his hands were shaking.
‘Well, at least there’s no time pressure,’ Kir said.
She closed her eyes. Her face twitched. They both knew she was lying. She couldn’t keep her head up for much longer. The moment she passed out, the bomb would be triggered.
‘It’s true I don’t know anything about bombs,’
Mark said, feeling the sweat running. ‘But I’m good with my fingers. My guitar teacher always said so.’
She smiled.
‘There’s only one small problem: I’m sitting on the detonator and three sticks of dynamite.’
91
‘DROP YOUR GUN.’
The man had a weapon pointed at the two teenagers trussed up in the corner. Peter dropped his gun with a clunk.
‘Kick it over here. Hands above your head.’
Peter held his hands in the air and kicked. Morten picked up the gun and stuck it in the lining of his trousers, still keeping his own gun pointed at Magnus and Ea-Louise. The small scar by his eye throbbed. Peter remembered what Beatrice had told him: that Melissa had jabbed her keys into his face.
‘We should never believe we can keep things to ourselves,’ he said. ‘I’ve known this place since before you were born.’
He nodded towards Sister Beatrice. Peter had pushed her behind him. She didn’t say anything.
The man with the gun now pointed it straight at them. He was leaning against the wall. A naked light bulb shone from the ceiling. The room measured roughly ten square metres and was like an old-fashioned pantry. There were bags of potatoes in nets, wooden crates of apples and oranges, pumpkins, beetroot and leeks. On the shelves there were what looked like jars of marmalade and syrup from the convent garden. In the corner on the cold floor the two teenagers sat back to back. Two skinny, freezing teenagers. Peter could hear their teeth chattering and almost see their bodies shivering.
‘Your sister sends her love.’
Instinct told him that talking was the way forward.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘We met at Kir’s. My name’s Peter.’
‘I know who you are, smart arse. You’re the one who’s been rushing about like a bull in a fucking china shop.’
‘Was it you who took my rosary that day on the cliff?’
‘It was my rosary. I found it in the Cardinal’s basement many years ago.’
The gun wavered nervously.
‘Don’t anyone move. Or they’ll get it!’
Again Morten pointed the pistol at the two teenagers. They cowered in fear.
‘Easy now,’ Peter said. ‘We’re not going to do anything.’
Sister Beatrice stood as still as a column, but he could sense her distress. He held her arm, mostly to reassure her, but also to tell her to stay where she was. She wriggled free.
‘Where’s Kir?’
Morten grinned.
‘She’s dynamite, that Kir. Fancy her, do you?’
Peter’s heart pounded.
‘She’s a friend.’
‘She’s a friend,’ Morten mimicked. ‘Anyway, right now your so-called friend is sitting on the famous chair with a bomb up her jacksie.’
‘Where? In the crypt?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’
Peter searched for a way to pump him, but decided to change the subject. He hoped the others would find Kir. He hoped she was alive and he would see her flaming-red hair and dimples once more.
‘Simon,’ he said. ‘You used him.’
‘Of course I used him.’
‘You knew he would be suspected of killing Melissa.’
‘Doh! The garrotte’s second nature in that family.’
‘You waited for him to be let out before you started on your spree.’
Morten smiled.
‘I’m not a complete idiot. The timing was perfect. Everyone’s entitled to a bit of luck if your daughter is going to die anyway.’
‘How much did he know? Did you help each other? Did you help him with his sister, and he returned the favour with Melissa and the others?’
The bitterness was there, despite the smile.
‘Simon knows nothing,’ Morten said. ‘He might suspect something, but he’s too busy taking his revenge on Lise. He doesn’t care what I get up to. I just had to provide him with a place to stay.’
‘Where?’
‘My house, obviously. It’s on the market.’
There was a moment of silence. Then Morten continued as if he wanted to justify himself:
‘Do you have any children?’
Peter shook his head.
‘Then you won’t understand.’
‘Probably not.’
Morten leaned back against the wall again. The gun moved between the teenagers and Peter and Beatrice in a never-ending circle.
‘You think it’s your job to give them security and a good life. You think it’s within your power.’
The words came out between gritted teeth.
‘You have to protect your children from constant danger.’
He blinked.
‘And you’re happy to do it. Because you love them deeply, as you’ve never loved before. But then one day something happens you have no control over. Your child gets sick. Almost dies. And afterwards she’s not the same child. The same daughter.’
The gun was shaking. His body shook with it. This could end in tragedy, Peter thought.
‘Her name was Liv,’ Morten said with death in his eyes. ‘My daughter’s name was Life. But after the infection there was no more life left in her eyes.’
Peter didn’t know which was worse: a father who loved or a mother who didn’t. He had no wish to be in a situation which mirrored his own life in reverse.
Morten turned to Beatrice.
‘You,’ he sneered. ‘You couldn’t keep a secret if you tried. You make so much noise when you walk that the devil can hear you in hell.’
‘Was that how you found your way here?’ Beatrice asked in a nervous voice.
He sent her a single, hostile nod.
‘All I had to do was follow you. Dead easy. I knew they were here.’
The body next to Peter was convulsed in sobs. Panic took hold of Peter, but he suppressed it. They were in it up to their necks here.
‘I did it for Melissa,’ Beatrice wept. ‘But I got it all wrong. All of this is my fault.’
Peter pushed her back, but she rushed forward.
‘I’m sorry, Magnus,’ she wept. ‘Please forgive me.’
‘Beatrice!’
Peter shouted, but she didn’t seem to hear him. She ran to the two children as if to embrace them. Morten raised his arm with the gun.
‘Help them, Peter.’
They were her last words, then Morten fired and she collapsed on the stone floor. Her habit settled around her like a punctured balloon. Peter went for Morten while he was still watching in amazement. He used his head as a battering ram and launched himself at the man with the gun. The arm holding the weapon slammed into the wall and metal scraped against stone. Peter kneed the man in the groin and knocked him off balance. The gun went off and fired into the ceiling, raining dust and stone down on them. In the noise and the confusion, Peter pulled the Stanley knife from his boot. Morten grabbed Peter round the neck and tried to throttle him, but let go when Peter stabbed him in the throat. He gurgled and the gun fell to the floor with a clunk. Peter picked it up and quickly pulled his own gun from the lining of Morten’s trousers. But there was no resistance left in Morten. He slowly slid down the stone wall and slumped to the floor. Peter watched as Morten’s life ebbed away with the blood spurting from his neck in a thick jet.
‘I hope it was worth it,’ Peter said.
The other man met his gaze. His breathing was shallow. Then his eyes closed and a smile spread across his face before his last sigh extinguished that too.
92
THEY WERE ALONE in the crypt. The Armed Response Unit and Anna Bagger had left. It was up to them. Mark knew they might die. This was a huge risk.
‘OK,’ Kir said. ‘Now listen to me.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Good. A bomb consists of three things: a power source, a circuit with a switch – which sets off the bomb – and a detonator. Are you with me?’
‘I’m with you.’
‘The safest op
tion is to find the power source. Usually that’s a battery.’
‘OK.’
‘If you can’t find a power source, you can go for the circuit, the switches or the detonator.’
He said nothing for fear that his voice would quiver.
‘I think he hid the power source on me,’ she said. ‘He rummaged around my clothes. He stuck something down the back under my jacket. And, as I said, I’m sitting on the detonator and the main charge. Approximately six hundred grammes of dynamite by my calculations.’
She closed her eyes briefly and opened them again.
‘As Morten left, I could hear a clock ticking. It stopped after two minutes and has been silent ever since.’
‘OK. What does that mean?’ he asked.
‘He was afraid to connect the switch while he was still here. So he equipped the bomb with a small clock. I think that was the sound I heard. So the clock activated the bomb two minutes after he had left.’
‘How . . .’
He was about to ask her how, but she had already moved on. He saw moisture on her upper lip. She was starting to shake. Time was running out.
‘I want you to examine very carefully where he placed it on me,’ she croaked. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not embarrassed.’
He opened her jacket.
‘It’s in your lap,’ he said.
‘Perfect. What is it?’
‘An egg timer.’
It looked like a crazy Heath Robinson device. There were two nails glued to it and a length of cable had been soldered to the nails. He described it.
‘That’s the switch,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch it. Where do the cables go?’
‘One goes under your bum.’
He took a closer look. ‘And there are two cables sticking out of your trousers. I can’t follow the second cable.’
Dead Souls Page 39