by Lotte Hammer
‘I gather you haven’t spoken to Bjarne Fabricius yet? Even though your entire business is up the creek.’
‘No, I haven’t spoken to him.’
‘He called me. He’s not a happy man, Dad, and he’s looking for you, I think, although he never said so outright. If I were you, I’d make sure he keeps looking.’
Svend Lerche snarled:
‘What do you think we’re trying to do here?’
‘The police would also like to talk to you, I gather. You made the four o’clock news. Not to mention the tabloids, but I imagine you’ve already seen them.’
‘Tell me, are you enjoying this?’
‘A bit, yes. Where are you staying now?’
‘You don’t need to know that. Have you planned a route for us like I asked you to, so we can get out of the country?’
Svend’s excuse for asking this was that he had no internet or any other sources of information where he was, but they both knew that was a lie. Not least because he had sent her an email. The truth was that he was brilliant at sitting in his office working out poker statistics, but he was like a lost child if he ever had to move outside his set routine. His planning talent didn’t stretch that far; Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was only too aware of it and the fact her mother was so dumb, she could throw herself on the ground and miss.
‘Do you have passports in names other than your own?’
He nodded, they did. As long as they could get to London or Paris, they could make their own onward arrangements. Where he didn’t say, nor had she expected him to.
‘And you have money? Otherwise I have some.’
He had lots, but it was nice of her. She unfolded a map.
‘You need to avoid the Øresund and the Storebælt bridges, unless you’re travelling by train. But I’m guessing you’re not. In which case, I would strongly recommend that we swap cars.’
Svend Lerche accepted this, he had been expecting it. She went through the route in detail.
‘Drive via Roskilde, Holbæk and Vig until you get to Sjællands Odde, but stick to minor roads, avoid the major ones. Take the fast ferry from Odden to Aarhus, the last one leaves at nine in the evening, and you’ll be in Aarhus roughly one hour later, by which time it’ll have started to get dark.
‘Then drive via Viborg and Skive, taking the smaller roads, cross the Sallingsund Bridge to Mors and drive diagonally across the island until the Vildsund Bridge and onwards to Thy, where you need to aim for Thisted. The rest of the route is complicated, but I’ve highlighted it on a map for you, and I’ve booked a small holiday apartment in a discreet, almost-deserted location near a village called Vigsø by Tannis Bay.
‘The farmer knows you’ll be arriving late and he won’t ask any questions, he’ll just give you your key. Don’t use the Satnav. I don’t know if the police can trace it or if it was automatically registered to my car when I bought it. Stay in the apartment until the following afternoon when your host will drive you to Hanstholm. There you’ll buy two tickets for the Bergen ferry; it departs at six-thirty and you’ll be in Norway the next day. Take a taxi to the airport and a plane to London, there are several daily departures. Bon voyage!’
He thanked her and sounded as if he meant it.
‘Don’t worry about us; once we get to London, we’ll be fine. We’ve been planning this for years. I’ll write to you as soon as we are where we want to be.’
‘I’m not worried.’
There was nothing more to say, even so he stayed in the car as if he wanted a conclusion of some kind. He said in a strange, wistful voice:
‘It was Jimmy Heeger, that lunatic, and what he did in Karlslille that caused this. I should have listened to you and had you with me when I interviewed him, then maybe it would never have happened.’
She gave him the keys to her car, adding, ‘Love to Mum, Dad.’
CHAPTER 87
‘That was the easier of the conversations.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had mentioned it twice already.
‘Yes, so you keep saying. Are you nervous?’
‘Absolutely, and you should be too. What’s the time?’
Henrik Krag laughed. ‘You’re wearing a watch, Benedikte.’ He wasn’t nervous, only a little excited. So many wonderful things had happened in the past week for him. He was going to be a dad, he had moved in with her, they had been married, and Ida, or as it turned out, Svend Lerche, wouldn’t torment them any longer.
Perhaps the cops would nick him, they probably would, they usually did, but he would still have Benedikte and when he got out of jail, they could live together like any normal family. He was also entitled to conjugal visits – the Danish prison service wasn’t inhumane, and that would give him something to look forward to. And Bjarne Fabricius? Well, they would just have to wait and see. Henrik ran his thumb back and forth across his wedding band, a simple gold ring with three small diamonds, discreet, not ostentatious, exactly the one he would have picked if he had been able to afford it. Who would have thought he would ever wear a ring like this and have a wife like Benedikte?
‘How did you know the ring would fit me?’
The doorbell rang. She jumped up. ‘He’s here now.’
The newlyweds had managed to assemble their dining table, and Benedikte had prepared modest refreshments of cold mineral water, a jug of iced tea, a bowl of peanuts and some glasses. She had also put her bridal bouquet on display on the table, but at one end, so people could see one another. The rest of the flat was one big mess of removal boxes and stacked furniture; it would take them weeks to unpack.
It was plain to see that Bjarne Fabricius was in no mood for anything other than business. His greeting was reserved and though he clearly noticed the rings on their fingers and could probably guess what had happened, he made no comment. He sat down at the end of the table, ignored the beverages but grabbed a small handful of peanuts, while the newlyweds took seats either side of him.
‘One single lie and it’s over,’ he warned.
Benedikte smiled at him, looking relaxed and natural, which was an incredible performance given how nervous she really was.
‘Why would we lie to you, Bjarne? What would we get out of that?’
Bjarne Fabricius, however, refused to be placated, and said icily:
‘Yes, what would you?’ He pointed at Henrik Krag. ‘Tell me about that business with your blackmailer, or whatever we call him.’
Henrik Krag glanced sideways at his wife for permission without realising that she must have been the one who had told their guest about the blackmailer in the first place. Bjarne Fabricius slammed the palm of his hand against the table so the glasses clattered. ‘Watch it!’ he said. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen wasn’t in control here, he was, so start talking.
Calmly and systematically Henrik Krag gave a rather fine presentation, which included everything; the photograph they’d been sent, the money they’d had to pay, the calls from the synthetic voice, their four tasks as he called them, and how they had finally worked out that Svend Lerche was behind it all. Bjarne Fabricius listened without interruption, and neither of them could tell from looking at him what he was thinking. When Henrik Krag had finished, he wanted only one point clarified.
‘Those kids at Skovbrynet Station, what was the point of that?’
Henrik Krag didn’t know, he had only done what he had been told to do. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen was hesitant, she didn’t want to interrupt without permission: ‘I know.’
Bjarne Fabricius granted it. ‘Tell me.’
‘One of the kids who was beaten up is the son of the Revenue officer Svend was barred from contacting.’
Bjarne Fabricius slapped his head with the palm of his hand, but didn’t comment on Svend Lerche’s lunacy in any other way. He turned to Benedikte.
‘And the idiocy relating to Jan’s widow? Do you know anything about that?’
‘My father claims it was a mistake. That moron Heeger would appear to have gone berserk. And I think that Svend i
s telling the truth, it didn’t happen with his blessing. It’s out of character for him; he wanted Jan’s USB stick, that was all.’
‘But he didn’t get it?’
‘No, he didn’t. I think the cops have it, but I’m just guessing.’
‘You say it’s out of character, but it’s wholly in his character to send his own daughter to a porn audition, not to mention that crap with the kids and the truck . . .’
‘That was personal, it was about feelings, that’s different.’
She sounded almost as if she were defending her father and wasn’t upset in the least when she said:
‘Some people have a love-hate relationship with their parents; I’ve always had a hate-hate relationship with mine.’
Bjarne Fabricius poured himself a glass of iced tea, and they could see that he was mulling things over.
‘The question is, what the hell do I do with the pair of you? Do you have any ideas?’
The latter was spoken ironically, but Henrik Krag missed this and said:
‘I think I’m going to prison, but I don’t really mind. It wipes the slate clean, then I can start over when I get out.’
That was how he viewed it. When you had done your time, you were cleansed of your guilt, you had paid the price and could start over. That their guest didn’t think in those terms and that Henrik Krag’s punishment, should Bjarne Fabricius pick one for him, would be of a more permanent nature, he hadn’t grasped. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had, however, and she fought for her husband.
‘The girl from Vallensbæk is in Rigshospitalet’s trauma unit, but she’ll live. My guess is that Henrik will get six or seven years, eight if he’s unlucky. And once he has confessed the investigation will go quiet, so there will be nothing that can hurt you. And I can rebuild your . . . our business, you know I can. Even better than before.’
‘You can and you will. But how long do you think Henrik will hold out during an interview? The very political system has been challenged. That’s normally called terrorism, and there are several nasty laws in place to deal with that kind of thing, which give the police significantly extended powers. The gloves are well and truly off, I can promise you that.’
Bjarne Fabricius spoke to her as though her husband weren’t present. Then he had an idea. He turned to Henrik Krag again and said slowly:
‘If you lie to me now, Henrik, you won’t live to see tomorrow, it’s that simple. So tell me, was Benedikte present when you and Jan killed that black whore in Hanehoved Forest?’
Time quivered. Benedikte Lerche-Larsen could feel an uncontrollable tic develop near her right eye, but sat frozen in her seat, unable to do anything about it. Bjarne Fabricius leaned across the table menacingly and narrowed his steel-grey eyes. At length Henrik Krag said:
‘No, she wasn’t.’
‘And you’re not lying to me?’
‘No, I’m not lying to you. Only Jan and I were there.’
Bjarne Fabricius laughed, gave Henrik Krag a hearty slap on his shoulder and said in a conciliatory tone: ‘I’ve got to give it to you, my friend, you’ve got guts. You had the courage to lie, I didn’t think you had the balls for that. But I already know she was there, she told me a long time ago, as did Jan. On the other hand, perhaps the cops won’t have such an easy ride with you as I first thought.’
It was at that moment, that very moment, that Henrik Krag saved his own life. He refused to let himself be carried along by the laughter.
‘No, she wasn’t! Benedikte wasn’t there.’
Bjarne Fabricius folded his hands behind his head, scratching his neck with his thumb while thinking it over again.
‘All right, Benedikte, he’s all yours.’
Benedikte Lerche-Larsen relaxed, collapsing as if the air had seeped out of her. Henrik Krag asked her, still confused:
‘Is this good?’
She and Bjarne Fabricius exchanged glances and both of them couldn’t resist smiling faintly despite the seriousness of the moment. The initiates indulging the novice. It was Bjarne Fabricius who answered.
‘Yes, that’s good.’
To claim that the mood then lightened would be an exaggeration, but for a while it was a little less tense. Bjarne Fabricius took time to comment on the flowers: he liked the lilies, found the roses to be anaemic, gene-manipulated rubbish unlikely to survive outside the greenhouse. He was offered a glass of red wine; Benedikte Lerche-Larsen had brought a good bottle in anticipation of his visit. He declined, then changed his mind and accepted one after all. Henrik Krag found a glass in a box and used a screw and a pair of pliers to open the bottle. Benedikte was annoyed with herself, she should have organised a corkscrew in advance.
Bjarne Fabricius, however, continued to ask difficult questions.
‘Why didn’t you come to me about those four lunatic tasks?’
‘I was afraid you would solve the problem by eliminating us,’ she replied.
It was plain speaking, the way he liked it, and he had a sudden understanding of her position. He sipped his wine and praised it.
‘You have two days.’
‘Four. Today is our wedding day, the others can be your present to us.’
He agreed and told her that such a smile was irresistible. Who could say no to her? He certainly couldn’t. Henrik Krag asked:
‘Four days until what?’
Again it was Bjarne Fabricius who gave him his answer.
‘Four days until you find a police station and turn yourself in – that is if you haven’t been picked up already, which I think is a real possibility. When I leave today, you’ll be coming with me; you need to speak to a lawyer, and he needs to practise some things with you. Including forgetting all about the blackmail, it’s too complicated. Svend paid you for the tasks, end of story, much simpler that way. Where would you hide money, if you had been given some by Svend?’
Henrik Krag didn’t hesitate.
‘With my mum, she lives in Ishøj.’
‘Fine. I have a couple of wads that I know Svend has touched. Take them to her tomorrow. But I’ll charge them to you later, Benedikte.’
She replied, a little anxiously:
‘Of course, but a lawyer at ten o’clock at night?’
‘My lawyers are there whenever I need them. And don’t be nervous, you’ll get him back early tomorrow morning. I don’t lie when there’s no need.’
Playtime was over. Bjarne Fabricius drained his glass and looked at Benedikte Lerche-Larsen, then shook his head as she made to refill his glass.
‘So, Benedikte, the balance needs to be restored, equilibrium is important. In order to get, you have to give. Did Svend like the route I had planned for him?’
She nodded, the tears starting to well up. It wasn’t that easy after all. He went on:
‘Do you have the times for me?’
She handed him a note. He thanked her and added:
‘Please don’t cry. Wait until I’ve gone, I hate women sobbing. Besides tears age you, and that would be a shame. I like it that you’re young.’
CHAPTER 88
The two men Bjarne Fabricius had sent to Jutland worked all night, and no one could say that they came easily by their money.
Initially, they waited impatiently in the yard for half an hour in front of the farmhouse they had borrowed. Although the day had been roasting hot, the night was chilly and they were both freezing. They could have gone inside where it was warm and just kept an eye on the gravel road leading up to the deserted farm – it wouldn’t be difficult to spot a set of headlights – but they were professional and had also factored in that their guests might be driving with the just the side lights. So they endured the cold.
When the car finally arrived, one of them greeted the driver with a friendly ‘Welcome to Thy’, while the other stepped out from the darkness and shot the couple in the back of their heads, first the man, then the woman. Then they got down to work.
The two victims were undressed and their clothes gathered up, while thei
r bodies were put into two strong plastic bags normally used for recycling cans. The car, a brand-new Citroën C5, was driven behind the house where it was doused in petrol and torched, along with the clothes, which had been left on the back seat. They waited until it had burned out, poured water over it to cool it down and began systematically to cut it up with a laser cutter and an angle grinder; reliable tools, the best on the market.
After two hours of hard graft, the car had been cut down into suitably small pieces, apart from the engine block, where only the serial number was removed. They loaded the metal scraps onto a small lorry and drove to Hanstholm harbour. The fisherman asked no questions, he had been paid generously not to. The two men carried their load onto the cutter and a couple of hours later it was dumped in the North Sea at a depth of five hundred metres in the waters known as the Jutland Reef.
A shame really, it had been an excellent car.
*
Viewed from the North Sea, Hanherred is a gloomy and inhospitable landscape. Once you have fought your way to the top of one of the grey sand dunes that line the beach, the view is desolate. From Bulbjerg in the west to Hanstholm in the east, along the crescent coastline and as far as the eye can see, the landscape is bleak. The dunes lie close together, one on top of the other, some large and craggy, others small and oppressive, but all of them scarred by black heather or dirty yellow lyme grass, which the wind would appear to have long since whipped the life out of. Here, in the midst of this barren area, far from everything and everyone, and half-hidden behind a sandy ridge to the east, lies Lodbo church.
The church was built in the twelfth century and consists of two conjoined buildings, stark-looking inside as well as out, with a deep piety that reflects the location in which it was built. The cemetery encircles the church and is surrounded by a stone wall as tall as a man, with a cast-iron gate set in the northern end. It is small yet the graves lie scattered, clustered in threes or fours, as though the congregation isn’t able to fill out the space.
The gravedigger helped the monosyllabic foreigner carry the two bodies. He had dug the grave needed a metre deeper than necessary, so the two dead bodies would be in fine company underneath their legitimate owner; a former county councillor whose parents were buried in the adjacent grave.