For a child, a tour in Torsten Florin’s menagerie would be a more exotic experience than a trip to the zoo. For an adult with even a limited understanding of animal welfare, it would be shocking.
‘Look at this,’ Torsten said. ‘A Komodo dragon.’
He was clearly enjoying himself, as though in the midst of an orgasm, and Ditlev understood why. Seeing as these animals were dangerous, and protected species as well, this wasn’t your ordinary prey.
‘I think we’ll take that one to Saxenholdt’s estate when the snow comes. Down there the hunting area is easier to survey, and these devils are fantastically good at hiding. Can you imagine it?’
‘Their bite is the most infectious on the planet, I’ve heard,’ Ditlev said. ‘So the shot has to be right on target, before it has a chance to lock its jaws on to the shooter.’
They saw Florin tremble as if he had the shivers. Yes, it was very good prey he’d procured for them. How had he managed it?
‘What will it be next time?’ Ulrik asked, curious.
Florin spread his hands. That meant he had an idea, but they would have to discover it for themselves.
‘Our choices are over here,’ he said, pointing at cage after cage containing small animals with big eyes.
It was as clean as a clinic inside the building. With their vast, collective miles of digestive system and correspondingly enormous quantities of metabolic waste, it was thanks to Torsten’s excellent, dark-skinned staff that the animals did not leave an overwhelming stench of urine and shit in the hall. Three Somalian families lived on his estate. They diligently swept, prepared food, dusted and cleaned the cages, but disappeared whenever guests arrived. You couldn’t risk people talking.
In the last row, six tall cages stood side by side, silhouettes huddled inside.
Ditlev smiled when he looked into the first two. The chimpanzee was well proportioned, but it had a pair of aggressive eyes that were trained on the animal in the next cage: a wild dingo that stood with its tail between its legs, shaking, while saliva flowed from its bared teeth.
He was just so incredibly creative, Torsten. Far beyond the pale of what society deemed acceptable. If animal rights organizations ever caught a glimpse of his world, he would face prison and fines in the millions. His empire would collapse overnight. Self-respecting women of means had no problem wearing animal fur, but a chimp frightened half to death by a dingo or forced to run screaming for its life through a Danish deciduous forest – that would make them opt out.
The final four cages held more ordinary animals. A Great Dane, a giant billy goat, a badger and a fox. Except for the fox, these animals lay in the hay, staring out at them as if they had understood their fate. The fox simply stood in the corner, trembling.
‘Of course you’re thinking, What’s going on here? But I’ll explain.’ Florin put his hands in his apron’s side pockets and nodded at the Great Dane. ‘You see, that one there has a pedigree going back one hundred years. It cost me the tidy sum of two hundred thousand kroner, but with those nasty, slanty eyes, I don’t think it should be allowed to continue passing on its ugly genes.’
Ulrik laughed, as could be expected.
‘And you should know about this special creature, too.’ He nodded at the next cage. ‘You probably recall that my greatest hero is the barrister Rudolf Sand, who kept a strict record of his trophies for almost sixty-five years. He really was a legendary killer.’ He nodded to himself and drummed on the bars so the animal pulled away, its head lowered and its horn threatening. ‘Sand dropped 53,276 wild animals, exactly. And a buck like this one was his most important and biggest trophy. It’s a corkscrew goat, perhaps better known as a Pakistani Markhor. You see, Sand hunted a male Markhor in Afghanistan’s mountains for nearly twenty years until finally, after one hundred and twenty-five days of intensive tracking, he managed to bring down a monstrous, ancient buck. You can read about his experience on the Internet. I recommend it. You’d have to search far and wide to find a hunter his equal.’
‘And this is a Markhor?’ Ulrik’s smile was murderous in itself.
Torsten was revelling in it. ‘It sure as hell is, and just a few kilos lighter than Rudolf Sand’s. Two and a half kilos, to be exact. A fine specimen. That’s what you get from having contacts in Afghanistan. Long live the war.’
They laughed and turned to the badger.
‘This one lived for years just south of the estate here, but the other day it came too close to one of my traps. I have quite a personal relationship with this little troll, I’d like you to know.’
So that means it’s off limits, Ditlev thought. Torsten will take care of it himself one day.
‘And then there’s this one, Fantastic Mr Fox. Can you figure out what makes him special?’
They studied the quivering fox for a long time. It seemed frightened, but nevertheless stood looking at them, its head completely still, until Ulrik kicked at the cage door.
It bolted at them so fast that its snapping jaws got hold of the toe of Ulrik’s boot. Both he and Ditlev jumped. Then they noticed the froth around its mouth, the crazy eyes and recognized that death was about to claim this creature.
‘Jesus Christ, Torsten, this here is definitely diabolical. This is the one, isn’t it? The animal we’re hunting next week, am I right? We’re going to set free a fox with advanced rabies.’ He laughed jovially, so that Ditlev also had to laugh. ‘You’ve found an animal that knows the forest inside out, and with rabies no less. I can hardly wait until you tell the other hunters. Damn, Torsten. Why didn’t we think of this before?’
At this Torsten joined in the laughter until the hall resounded with the rustling and hissing of animals seeking safety in their prison’s deepest corners.
‘It’s good you’re wearing those thick boots, dear Ulrik,’ he laughed and pointed at the teeth marks that had imprinted themselves in his custom-sewn Wolverine. ‘Otherwise we’d have to take a trip to Hillerød Hospital, and that would be hard to explain, don’t you think?
‘One more thing,’ Torsten said, leading them to the part of the hall with the brightest light. ‘Have a look!’
He pointed at a shooting range built as an extension of the building. It was a cylindrical tunnel, almost seven feet high and at least fifty yards long. Well marked, yard by yard. With three targets. One for a bow and arrow, one for a rifle and finally one with a steel-plated accumulation box for heavier calibres.
They also inspected the walls inside the tunnel, impressed. At least fifteen inches of soundproofing. If anything outside was capable of hearing shots, it could only be a bat.
‘There are air nozzles all the way round, so we can simulate all types of wind conditions in the shooting tunnel.’ He pushed a button. ‘This wind force gives a deviation that demands a correction of two to three per cent with a bow. You can see the table over there.’ He pointed at a small computer screen on the wall. ‘All types of weapons and wind simulations can be keyed in.’ He stepped into the lock. ‘But first you need to know how it actually feels. We can’t very well take all this equipment out into the forest, now, can we?’
Ulrik followed him. His thick hair didn’t move an inch. On that point Torsten probably had a scalp better-suited as a wind-force indicator.
‘Now we’re getting to the good part,’ Torsten continued. ‘We’ll let the rabid fox loose in the forest. It’s insanely aggressive, as you both saw, and the beaters will be well equipped with leathers all the way up to the groin.’ He gestured with his hands to illustrate. ‘We, the hunters, will be the ones exposed. Of course I’ll see to it that there’s vaccine near by, but even the flesh wounds it can deliver in its crazy frenzy are enough to kill a man. A torn femoral artery! You know what that’ll do.’
‘When are you going to tell the others?’ Ulrik asked gleefully.
‘Just before we begin. But here’s the best part, my friends. Look at this.’
He ducked behind a bale of straw and pulled out a weapon. Ditlev was immediately wild about his selecti
on. It was a crossbow with a scope. In no way was this legal in Denmark following the weapons law reform of 1989, but it was truly murderous and superb to aim with. If you could, that is. And you had only one chance to hit the target, because it took time to reload. It would be a hunt with many great, unknown risks. Just as it should be.
‘The Relayer Y25, it’ll be called. Excalibur’s anniversary model, out this spring. Only one thousand will be produced, plus these two. It doesn’t get any better than this.’ He scooped another crossbow from its hiding spot and handed one to each of them.
Ditlev took his with outstretched arm. It weighed next to nothing.
‘We managed to sneak them into the country in disassembled pieces. Each part was sent separately. I thought one of the pieces had been lost in the mail, but it turned up yesterday.’ He grinned. ‘One year in transit. What do you think?’
Ulrik snapped the string. It sounded like a harp. Sharp and clear-toned.
‘The manual states it can pull two hundred pounds, but I think it’s more. And with a 2219 bolt, even large animals can’t survive a shot at up to ninety yards. Watch this.’
Torsten grabbed a crossbow, set the stirrup on the floor and placed his foot on it. Then he pulled hard, tightened and locked it. They knew he’d done it many times before.
He pulled a bolt from the quiver under the bow and carefully locked it, accomplishing the task in a single long, lithe and silent movement, so unlike the explosive force he was about to unleash at the target forty-five yards ahead.
They had expected Torsten would hit the bull’s eye, but not the sizeable arc the bolt first described through the air, nor that it would hit the target so forcefully that it disappeared from view.
‘When you hit the fox, make sure you’re standing higher up, so the bolt doesn’t strike one of the beaters when it tears through the fox’s body, because unless you hit the shoulder blades, it will. And it would probably be best not to, since it won’t die from the wound; it’ll just keep running.’
He gave them a slip of paper.
‘Here’s a link online to directions on assembling and using the crossbow. I recommend you watch all the videos very thoroughly.’
Ditlev glanced at the link:
http://www.excaliburcrossbow.com/demo/listings.php?category-id=47.
‘Why?’ he then asked.
‘Because you two are going to win the draw.’
23
Carl returned to the basement to find a single height-adjustable table assembled on wobbly legs. Next to it he found Rose on her knees, cursing at a screwdriver. Nice rump, he thought, stepping over her without a word.
He cast a sidelong glance at the table, and saw with foreboding at least twenty yellow notes in Assad’s characteristic block letters. Five of them were messages saying that Marcus Jacobsen had called. He crumpled those up immediately. The rest he gathered in a sticky mass and shoved in his back pocket.
He peeked into Assad’s little cubbyhole of an office and discovered the prayer rug on the floor and the chair empty.
‘Where is he?’ he asked Rose.
She didn’t bother to respond. Simply pointed behind Carl’s back.
He looked into his own office and saw Assad sitting with his legs planted on the paper forest on his desk, reading eagerly and appearing lost in thought, his head bobbing in rhythm to the buzzing music of indefinable origin streaming from his headphones. A steaming glass of tea sat in the centre of a stack of papers that Carl had labelled ‘Category 1: Cases without perpetrators’. It all looked very cosy and organized.
‘What the hell are you doing, Assad?’ he barked. So brusquely that the man jerked like a marionette, sending file pages floating silently through the air and splashing tea all over the desk.
Assad threw himself across the desk in a flurry, using his sleeves like a tea towel. Not until Carl put a reassuring hand on Assad’s shoulder did his look of surprise disappear, replaced by his usual, mischievous grin that implied he was sorry but couldn’t help it and besides he had exciting news to share. Only then did he remove his headphones.
‘Yes, I’m sorry I’m sitting here, Carl. But inside my office I heard her all the time then.’
He motioned with a thumb towards the corridor, where Rose’s oaths created as constant a flow of noise as that of all the interesting substances flushing through the basement’s sanitation pipes.
‘Aren’t you supposed to be helping her assemble the tables, Assad?’
Assad put a shushing finger to his full lips. ‘She wants to do it herself. I did try.’
‘Come in here a moment, Rose!’ Carl shouted, dumping the most tea-soaked stack of papers on the floor in the corner.
She stood herself before them with a hateful stare and such a savage grip on the screwdriver that her knuckles showed white.
‘You get ten minutes to make room for your two chairs in here, Rose,’ he said. ‘Assad, you help her unpack them.’
They sat before him like two school kids with eager faces. The chairs were OK, though he wouldn’t have chosen green metal legs. Those, too, he would probably have to get used to.
He told them about his discovery at the house in Ordrup and put the open metal box on the table before them.
Rose seemed disinterested, but Assad’s eyes looked as though they were about to pop out of his skull.
‘If we find fingerprints on the Trivial Pursuit cards that match one or both of the victims in Rørvig, then I’d stake everything on the other effects also having fingerprints of others who’ve been subjected to similar violent experiences,’ he said, waiting a moment until they appeared to understand what he’d just said.
Carl lined up the little teddy bear and the six plastic pockets. Handkerchief, watch, earring, rubber band and two cards, each in individual pockets.
‘Oh, how cute,’ Rose said, eyes fastened on the teddy bear. Typical, thought Carl.
‘Do you two see the most remarkable thing about these pockets?’ he asked.
‘There are two plastic pockets with Trivial Pursuit cards in them,’ Rose said, without hesitation. So she was present after all. He could have sworn she wasn’t.
‘Exactly. Excellent Rose. And that means ... ?’
‘Well, logically it means then that each pocket kind of represents a person and not an event,’ Assad said. ‘Otherwise the Trivial Pursuit cards would have been put in the same plastic thingy, right? The Rørvig murders had two victims. So two plastic pockets.’ He spread out his hands in a broad, panoramic sweep. Just like his smile. ‘That is, one plastic pocket to each person then.’
‘Precisely,’ Carl said. Assad was a guy one could count on.
Rose put her palms together and slowly raised them to her mouth. Recognition or shock, or both. Only she knew.
‘So, are you saying we might be looking at six murders?’ she asked.
Carl pounded his desk. ‘Six murders. Bingo!’ he cried. Now they were all on the same page.
Rose stared again at the cute little teddy bear. Somehow she couldn’t make it fit with everything else. Nor was it easy to do.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This little guy here most likely has his own significance, since it’s not displayed like all the other effects.’
They all stared at it for a moment.
‘We don’t know, of course, whether all the effects are related to a murder, but it’s a possibility.’ He extended his hand across the table. ‘Assad, give me Johan Jacobsen’s list. It’s hanging on the board behind you.’
He put it on the table so they both could see it, and pointed at the twenty events that Jacobsen had listed.
‘It’s far from certain that these cases have anything to do with the Rørvig murders. In fact, there might not even be any connection between these, either. But if we explore these cases systematically, maybe we’ll find just one among them that we can connect to just one of these effects, and that’s enough. We’re looking for one more crime the gang could be connected to. If we find it, we’re on
the right track. What do you say, Rose, are you the one who’s going to take on this assignment, or what?’
She let her hands drop and suddenly didn’t look too friendly. ‘You give off incredibly mixed signals, Carl. One moment we’re not allowed to talk, the next we’re in full swing. Then I’m supposed to assemble tables, and suddenly I’m not. What am I supposed to think? What will you say in ten minutes?’
‘Hey, wait. There’s something you’ve misunderstood, Rose. You will assemble the tables. You’re the one who ordered them.’
‘It’s really too bad that two men make me do it all by myself –’
At this Assad interrupted. ‘Oh, I wanted to, sure, did I not say it?’
But Rose went on. ‘Carl, do you have any idea how much it hurts, wrestling with all those metal table legs? There’s always some kind of problem with them.’
‘You ordered them, and they’ll be standing in the corridor tomorrow. All put together! We’re having guests from Norway. Have you forgotten?’
She cocked her head back as though he had bad breath. ‘Here we go again. Guests from Norway?’ She looked around. ‘How are we going to have guests from Norway? This place looks like a junkshop. And Assad’s office would shock anyone.’
‘So do something about it, Rose.’
‘Hello? You want me to do something about that, too? That’s quite a few tasks all at once. So I guess you expect us to stay here all night long?’
He tipped his head from side to side. It was of course a possibility.
‘No, but we can start at five, tomorrow morning,’ he responded.
‘Five in the morning!’ This just about knocked her over. ‘Man, you’ve got to be kidding. Honestly! You must have been born with a screw loose!’ she scolded, as Carl wondered whom he could ask at Station City to find out how they’d been able to stand this pain in the neck for more than a week.
‘Please, Rose,’ Assad said, trying to smooth things out. ‘It’s only then because the case is now moving forward then.’
At this, she leaped to her feet. ‘Assad, you bloody well can’t butt in and destroy a good row. And stop with all those “thens”. Take ’em out, mate. I know you can. I’ve heard you on the telephone. You do fine.’
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