A Conspiracy of Faith

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  She sniffed in the smell of smoke, and new images darted in her mind. Camps by the lake. Bonfires of Midsummer Eves in the company of older boys. The aromas of a farmers’ market in Vitrolles, the one time she and her brother had spent a camping holiday with their parents.

  The smell of smoke seemed stronger now.

  She opened her eyes to a yellow light dancing with blue above her.

  And the next moment everything was in flames.

  Burning.

  She had heard that almost everyone who died in fires died from smoke inhalation, and that if a person wanted to save themselves they should crawl along the floor, underneath the smoke.

  She wanted to die from smoke inhalation. It sounded like a merciful, painless death.

  But the smoke was rising and she was unable to stand. The flames would consume her before the smoke. She would burn to death.

  And then came the fear.

  The final, definitive dread.

  45

  “There, Carl!” Assad indicated a smooth-rendered, sienna-colored building facing out on to Københavnsvej in the process of being done up.

  WE’RE OPEN—SORRY ABOUT THE MESS! a banner read over the door. It didn’t look like an entrance.

  “Turn down here toward the shopping center, and then to the right. We must go around the building site there,” instructed Assad, pointing in the direction of a dark, empty area amid new buildings.

  They pulled onto a dimly lit car park next to the bowling alley and found a space. Carl got out and walked around. No fewer than three dark Mercedes were parked here, though none looked as if it had just been involved in an accident.

  Carl wondered how long it might take to get a car repaired. Longer than this, surely? His thoughts darted to his service pistol, lying inside the gun locker at Police HQ. He probably ought to have brought it with him, but how could he have known when they left this morning? It had been a long and eventful day.

  He looked up at the building.

  Apart from a sign composed of a pair of enormous bowling pins, nothing at the rear of the pretentious building even remotely suggested the place might be a bowling alley.

  The same was true when they went inside and found themselves in a stairwell filled with steel lockers. It was a bit like left luggage at a railway station. Otherwise, the walls were bare. An empty space with a couple of doors and no indication of where they might lead. Stairs going down, done out in the national colors of Sweden. The place was utterly devoid of life.

  “Let’s go downstairs into the basement,” Assad suggested.

  THANK YOU FOR YOUR CUSTOM—HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN AT ROSKILDE BOWLING CENTER—SPORT, FUN, AND EXCITEMENT! read a sign on the other side of the door.

  Carl wondered if the last phrase was supposed to refer to bowling. To his mind, bowling was neither a sport nor fun nor exciting. It was more lukewarm beer, saggy arses, and indigestible food.

  They went straight through to reception, where a man was on the phone amid a jumble of rules and regulations, bags of sweets, and reminders to display your parking permit.

  Carl glanced around the place. The bar was packed. Bowling bags and duffel bags dumped all over. People gathered in animated clusters around the twenty-odd lanes. Men and women in shapeless trousers and a variety of polo shirts with club logos on them. It looked like a typical match night.

  “We need to speak to a Lars Brande. Do you know him?” Carl asked when the man behind the counter had finished on the phone.

  He gestured toward a group at the bar. “That’s him over there, with the glasses on his head. Just shout for Bumble, you’ll see.”

  “Bumble?”

  “Yeah, that’s what we call him.”

  They went over, noting inquisitive eyes weighing up their conspicuous clothes and footwear, wondering what they wanted.

  “Lars Brande? Or do you prefer Bumble?” Carl asked, extending a hand. “My name’s Carl Mørck, Copenhagen Police, Department Q. Mind if we have a word?”

  Lars Brande smiled and shook hands. “Oh, right, I’d almost forgotten. One of our teammates just dropped a bombshell. Says he’s leaving us, just as we’ve got the district championships coming up. Bit distracted. Sorry about that.”

  He gave the man next to him a thump on the back. Most likely the one who was letting them down.

  “Are these your teammates?” Carl asked with a nod in the direction of the others.

  “Roskilde’s finest,” Brande replied, thumbs aloft.

  Carl gave Assad a look: Stay here and keep a sharp eye on them, so no one does a runner. That was the last thing they needed.

  Lars Brande was a tall, sinewy man with a slender frame. His features distinguished him as a man whose work involved long hours sitting indoors, a watchmaker, perhaps, or maybe a dentist. But his skin was weathered and his hands broad and tanned. All in all, it was a rather confusing impression.

  They went over to the rear wall and watched the bowling for a moment before Carl commenced.

  “You spoke to my assistant, Rose Knudsen. I understand you identified a coincidence of names and that you found it quite amusing. The bowling ball on the key ring, too. I want you to know that this isn’t just some routine matter we’re dealing with. We’re investigating a very serious case of the greatest urgency, and everything you say may be taken down in evidence.”

  Brande looked out of sorts. The glasses perched on top of his head seemed almost to sag into his hair.

  “Am I under suspicion? What’s this about?” The man was clearly ill at ease with the situation. It felt odd, especially as Carl had in no way considered him a suspect. Why would he have been so accommodating with Rose if he had something to hide? No, it didn’t make sense.

  “Under suspicion? Not at all. I’d just like to ask you some questions, if that’s OK?”

  Brande glanced at his watch. “Well, it’s rather a bad time, to be honest. We’re on in twenty minutes, so normally we’d be getting ourselves together now. Can’t it wait until later? Not that I’m not curious, mind.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid. Can we go over to the officials’ desk a minute?”

  Brande looked puzzled but nodded all the same.

  The tournament officials seemed just as bewildered, but when Carl produced his badge, they were immediately compliant.

  Carl and Brande returned to the far wall, passing a number of tables as the message came over the speakers.

  “Due to unforeseen circumstances, the order of play has now been revised,” one of the officials explained and proceeded to outline the changes.

  Carl glanced toward the bar, where five pairs of eyes now stared in their direction. Five faces wearing baffled expressions, and behind them Assad, his gaze fixed on the backs of their necks with the keenness of a hyena.

  One of these men was the man they were looking for. Carl was certain of it. As long as they remained here, the children would be safe. Provided they were still alive.

  “How well do you know your teammates, exactly? I understand you’re the captain?”

  Brande nodded and answered without returning Carl’s gaze. “We’ve been together since the center opened. Before that, we played in Rødovre, but this is more convenient. There were a couple more of us back then, but those of us who live in the Roskilde area decided to carry on here instead. So, yeah, I know them pretty well. Especially Beehive, the guy with the gold watch over there. He’s my brother, Jonas.”

  Carl thought Lars Brande seemed nervous. Was he hiding something?

  “Beehive and Bumble. Odd names,” said Carl. Perhaps a polite distraction would ease the tension. Right now, it was imperative that the man opened up as quickly as possible.

  Brande gave what looked like a wry smile.

  “Maybe. But Jonas and I are beekeepers, so it’s not that strange really,” he explained. “We’ve all got nicknames on the team. You know how it is.”

  Carl nodded, even though he didn’t. “I notice you’re all rather tall. You’re not all
related, are you?”

  If they were, they would cover each other’s backs, come what may.

  Brande smiled again. “No, only Jonas and me. But you’re right, we are above average height, all of us. Long arms make for a better swing, you see.” He laughed. “No, it’s pure coincidence, that’s all. Never really thought about it until now.”

  “I’m going to ask for your civil registration numbers in a minute, the whole team. But before I do, would you happen to know if any of you has been in trouble with the police?”

  Brande seemed genuinely astonished. Perhaps the gravity of the matter was only now dawning on him.

  He took a deep breath. “We don’t know each other well enough to say,” he said. It was clearly not entirely true.

  “Do any of you drive a Mercedes?”

  He shook his head. “Not Jonas or me. I’ve no idea what the other lads have got, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”

  Was he covering up for someone?

  “Surely you know what cars they drive? Don’t you go off to tournaments together?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but we always meet up here first. Some of us keep our gear in the lockers upstairs, and Jonas and I have got an old VW camper with room for the six of us. It’s cheaper, going together.”

  His answers were plausible and seemed natural enough, even if the man was beginning to look like a poor excuse for himself.

  “Who are the other team members, exactly? Can you point them out to me?” Carl said, then thought better of it. “No, hang on a minute. First tell me where you got those bowling-ball key rings of yours. Are they common? The sort of thing you can buy in any bowling alley?”

  Brande shook his head. “Not these ones. The number one is because we’re good.” He smiled wryly again. “Normally there’s nothing on them, or just a number indicating the ball size you use. Never a number one, because they don’t make them that small. No, one of the lads brought these home from Thailand.” He produced his own from his pocket. Small, dark, and worn. Nothing special to look at, not even with the number engraved on it.

  “The lads here and a couple more from the old team are the only ones who’ve got them,” he went on. “I think he came home with ten, if my memory serves me right.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Svend. Bloke in the blue blazer. Sitting over there chewing gum, looks like a gentlemen’s outfitter. I believe he actually was once.”

  Carl eyeballed him. Like the rest of the team, he was keeping a close eye on proceedings, wondering what the police might want with their captain.

  “OK. So you’re on the same team. Does that mean you practice together and stuff?” Carl asked. He made a mental note that it would be good to know if any of them made a habit of not being able to turn out.

  “Jonas and I do, and one or two others might join us once in a while. Mostly for laughs, though. We used to more in the old days, not so often now.” He smiled again. “A couple of us might get in a bit of practice before a match, but apart from that, we don’t really train at all. Maybe we should, but what the hell. If you’re notching up over two hundred and fifty almost every game, there’s hardly room for improvement, is there?”

  “Would any of you have a visible scar?”

  Brande gave a shrug. They would have to check each of them individually afterward.

  “Is it OK to sit down, do you think?” Carl gestured toward the eating area, where tables were lined up with white tablecloths on them.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Right, I’ll sit down there, then. Would you ask your brother to come over?”

  Jonas Brande was plainly confused. What was this all about? Why was it so important they had to change the order of play?

  Carl didn’t answer. “Where were you this afternoon between three fifteen and three forty-five? Can you account for your whereabouts?”

  Carl considered him. Masculine. Forty-fiveish. Was this the man he had seen outside the lifts at the hospital today? The man in the drawing?

  Jonas Brande leaned forward slightly. “Between three fifteen and three forty-five? I couldn’t really say, to be honest.”

  “I see. Nice watch you’ve got there, Jonas. You don’t look at it much, then?”

  The man laughed unexpectedly. “Well, I do actually. I just don’t wear it when I’m at work. It’s worth about thirty-five thousand, this. I inherited it from our father.”

  “So you were at work between three fifteen and three forty-five? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yeah, I’m pretty certain I would have been.”

  “So how come you couldn’t say?”

  “What I meant was I couldn’t say whether I was in the workshop, outside repairing beehives, or over in the barn putting a new cog in the extractor.”

  He wasn’t the brighter of the two brothers. Or was he?

  “Do you sell a lot on the side?”

  This was a turn he had not been expecting. So obviously they did. Not that it bothered Carl. That was another department altogether. All he wanted was to get a picture of who exactly he had in front of him.

  “Have you got a criminal record, Jonas? And I can check as easy as that.” He snapped his fingers in the air. Or tried to.

  Jonas Brande shook his head.

  “What about the other blokes on the team?”

  “Why are you asking?”

  “I’d like an answer.”

  He withdrew slightly. “I think maybe Johnny Go, Throttle, and Pope.”

  Carl leaned his head back. Fucking stupid names. “And who might they be, when they’re at home?”

  Jonas Brande narrowed his eyes as he looked over at the men by the bar. “Birger Nielsen, the bald bloke, he plays the piano in a bar. That’s why we call him Johnny Go. Throttle’s the bloke next to him. Mikkel, his proper name is. He’s a motorcycle mechanic in the city. I don’t think either of them ever did anything serious. In Birger’s case I think it was just some little racket selling booze without the revenue stamps. Mikkel got done for dealing stolen cars. A good many years ago now, though. Why do you want to know?”

  “What about the third guy you mentioned? Pope, is that right? That would be Svend, the bloke in the blue blazer?”

  “Yeah. Catholic, he is. Hence the nickname. Don’t know much about him apart from that. He was up to something in Thailand, I think.”

  “And who’s the one remaining? The guy sitting talking to your brother. Is he the one who’s leaving the team?”

  “Yeah, that’s René. He’s our best player, so it’s a bit of a blow. René Henriksen, like the footballer, the central defender who used to play for Denmark. That’s why we call him Three.”

  “Because that was Henriksen’s shirt number?”

  “It was at some point, anyway.”

  “Have you got any ID on you, Jonas? Something with your civil registration number on it?”

  He reached obediently into his pocket and produced a driver’s license.

  Carl wrote down the number.

  “By the way, do any of you drive a Mercedes?”

  Jonas Brande shrugged. “I wouldn’t know. You see, we usually meet up…”

  Carl didn’t have time to hear the same story twice.

  “Thanks, Jonas. Can I ask you to send René over, please?”

  Their eyes were fixed on each other from the moment he stood up in the bar to the moment he sat down in front of Carl.

  On the face of it, an agreeable sort. Not that one should ever be taken in, but decently dressed, well groomed, and with a firm, affable gaze.

  “René Henriksen,” the man said by way of introduction, tugging at the creases of his trousers as he sat down. “I understand from Lars Brande that you’ve got some kind of investigation on the go. Not that he said anything. I’m surmising, that’s all. Has it got something to do with Svend?”

  Carl considered the man closely. Perhaps rather too narrow in the face, though maybe it was just the chubby cheeks of youth falling
away as the years advanced. High temples, hair recently trimmed. But a hairpiece would cover all that. There was something about his eyes that gave Carl a funny feeling. Those fine wrinkles weren’t just smile lines.

  “Svend? You mean Pope, I suppose?” Carl smiled, though it was the last thing he felt like doing.

  The man raised his eyebrows.

  “Why would you think this has to do with Svend, I wonder?” Carl said.

  The man’s expression changed. No longer keen and on his guard, now almost the opposite. A shameful, caught-in-the-act kind of look, like being found out to be ignorant instead of clever.

  “Oh,” he said. “My mistake. It was wrong of me to mention Svend like that. Can we start again?”

  “OK. You’re leaving the team, I understand. Planning on moving?” Carl asked.

  Again, that same look, as if the man suddenly felt naked.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. I’ve been offered a job in Libya, in charge of a project. Huge solar panels in the desert, generating power through one central unit. It’s quite revolutionary. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “Sounds interesting. What’s the company called?”

  “Ah, that’s the dull part.” He smiled. “For the time being, it’s nothing but the company’s registration number. The people behind it haven’t been able to agree yet whether the name should be in Arabic or English, but I can tell you that the company presently goes under the name 773 PB 55.”

  Carl nodded. “How many on the team here drive a Mercedes, besides you?”

  “Who says I’ve got a Mercedes?” The man shook his head. “As far as I know, Svend’s the only one with a Merc. Usually, though, he comes here on foot. He hasn’t that far to go.”

  “How would you know Svend drives a Mercedes? Jonas and Lars gave me the impression you drive to the tournaments together in their camper.”

  “And so we do. But Svend and I see each other privately. Have done for some years now. Or used to, at least. I haven’t been around to his place for some time, though, obviously. But before that, we used to see quite a bit of each other. He’s still driving the same car, I know that for sure. A disability pension doesn’t go far.”