33
For Boy, this was a day filled with considerations about leaving.
The years he had spent in the service of Brage-Schmidt had been rewarding. He had no cause for complaint, but times had changed.
His suitcase lay packed on the bed in his room back at the consulate. Suits had been selected from his walk-in closet, and watches and jewellery neatly placed in his little strongbox. His plane ticket for the flight tomorrow evening was already bought.
He hadn’t discussed his decision with Brage-Schmidt for good reason, but this was the way things had to be. It was best to stop while the going was good.
It had been a creative period in his life. While his employer often presented him merely as his private secretary and personal assistant, the reality of the matter was that behind the scenes he had been given free rein to deal with any problems or situations that might arise. This had led to blackmail of over-zealous business contacts, false accusations levelled against and among competitors and deals to smuggle gems with a supplier of airline lifejackets. There was also the time five years ago when he had recruited Mammy and a couple of her boys to feign a robbery of Karrebæk Bank in order to cover up a fatal liquidity crisis. Not to mention the numerous threats to public officials and insurance providers in nearly a dozen different countries. Yes, during his association with Brage-Schmidt he’d been able to deliver the goods, including murders and kidnappings farmed out to local or global sub-contractors.
And now he had to perform one of these tasks himself, for his own sake as well as his employer’s. Just this one last time and then he would be gone. That was the plan.
He had followed Mammy’s movements all day. She had already deployed decoys – ostensibly disabled individuals in wheelchairs – at strategic locations in the city, ready to pounce on Marco if he should happen by. In Østerbro her crew had beaten up a handful of Ukrainians for refusing to take orders from them, and at every S-train station and some of the busiest bus stops men had been posted, with the promise of a ten-thousand-euro reward if they apprehended the boy.
Earlier in the day they had almost succeeded in bringing him in. It had cost one of Mammy’s boy soldiers a twenty-centimetre gash in his hip before they managed to extract him from a rubble chute, and another one now sported an eye so bloodshot that he had to wear sunglasses in order not to attract attention. They had almost caught him, which was good, but insufficient.
This Marco was the fluttering butterfly in South America that could trigger a storm in Japan. The one who could start a domino effect. And Boy no longer wished to be a part of it. He took his precautions out of principle, for Brage-Schmidt had taught him that principles were more important than anything else.
If they captured this boy, everything would be all right. If they didn’t, or if he managed to get the police involved, there was no telling what might happen. Zola had assured him that Marco couldn’t possibly know anything of significance, but then why had there been police speaking with Eriksen at the ministry today? They had come too close by half, so from now on Boy had his own agenda.
Needless to say, Brage-Schmidt would be no hindrance, but a rebellious Eriksen, or an obstinate Teis Snap in particular, was another matter. Snap was the only one with a hotline directly to Boy, and if it wasn’t disconnected it could end up like the cannula delivering a lethal drug into the veins of a condemned man.
The fact of the matter was that the attempt on Eriksen’s life had been a spectacular failure, so consequently the man was now doubtless clutching his Danish share certificates tightly to his chest, not letting them out of his sight for an instant. A while ago Boy had called Eriksen’s home number pretending to be a colleague and had learned from the man’s wife that the little worm had not come home from work and she had no idea where he was.
He assumed, therefore, that Eriksen was already on the run. It was just as well.
Zola wasn’t much of a problem either. He didn’t have Boy’s number because the SIM card was changed after every call between them. They had never met in person, and it was Boy who phoned him, never the other way round. Zola was a conceited, arrogant fool, hurtling towards the abyss like a lemming. It was only a question of when and where he would finally go over the edge.
Teis Snap, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. An amorphous type who could break down at any time, which was unfortunate given that the man had too complete an overview of the facets of their operation and would be able to point a finger in any number of directions if things went wrong, which for him they already had. He had gambled with his bank’s assets. He had miscalculated when they selected their stooge in the ministry. Snap was the man Eriksen threatened because he was the easiest. Moreover, at this moment he was in possession of the gold Boy had been digging for, namely the unregistered stocks even a halfwit could hardly fail to turn into double-digit millions. Euros, at that.
And Boy was determined to take all of it with him.
The long gravel track leading up to Teis Snap’s house near Karrebæksminde was lined by an avenue of trees. This remote location was ideal for those who craved space, horses and affordable land, allowing the leeway for personal extravagance in the form of lavish buildings and a fleet of cars.
Boy had never been there before, yet quickly realized that in order not to draw attention to himself he would need to park behind the outbuildings, where his car couldn’t be seen from the main house.
He got out of the car and listened. If there were dogs, he would deal with them first. He hated the erratic nature that dogs in the countryside often displayed. In fact, he hated all dogs, apart from the one he himself had owned.
There were four buildings in all. White, well-renovated stables and a main house that reeked of a man who let his wife make the decisions. He had expected the property to be grandiose and sterile, but instead he found himself looking at black wagon wheels decorating the end wall and trellises resplendent with purple clematis.
Boy scanned the courtyard in front of the house. Besides a black 4x4 and the ubiquitous white Mini Cooper convertible, there wasn’t much to meet the eye, but it was enough.
He frowned, pausing for a moment with his finger poised at the brass doorbell, considering what he would do if it turned out there were guests in the house.
Then he pressed the bell and waited.
Incredibly enough, Snap was still married to his first wife, Lisa. Brage-Schmidt’s theory was that the age difference was what kept them together, but judging by her photos, looks might have had something to do with it too.
Boy heard her inside the house, but the door remained closed. Most probably she was peering at his CCTV image on a screen in the hall. The camera was pointed straight at him.
‘I am Brage-Schmidt’s private secretary,’ he announced, looking into the lens.
The possibilities were several, providing she’d heard what he’d said. Most likely she wouldn’t let him in, in which case he would have to go round the back of the house and smash a window. He would gain entry one way or another.
‘I see. Is my husband expecting you?’ came a voice from a speaker he couldn’t locate.
‘Yes. Hasn’t he come home yet?’ Her silence told him she was alone. ‘I can come back,’ he went on. ‘Although we’d agreed a time. Actually, I’m ten minutes late, so perhaps he’s on his way as we speak. I can wait out here, the weather’s nice, and I’ve all these lovely flowers to admire.’
He stood quite still for a moment, smiling benignly, his gloved hands folded in front of the bottom button of his jacket, like an undertaker who stands in the background as the bereaved pay their final respects. It signalled humility and unobtrusiveness, the kind of strategy one only learned from the best of teachers.
Twenty seconds passed before she opened the door, and barely had time to introduce herself before he grabbed her head, jerked it to the side, and broke her neck. Soundlessly and without pain, so swiftly that she could hardly have registered what was happening.
He carried her body upstairs to the bedroom, propping her up at an angle with pillows on the bed, then turned her face to the side and switched on the television.
He took his time checking the house. Rifling discreetly through people’s things was a skill long since acquired. Items could be opened or inspected in many ways using the proper fingertip touch. It took half an hour to go through the place without finding what he was looking for. The scenario was more complicated now, though not unexpected.
After deleting all footage from the security camera at the front door, he discovered the wife’s turned-on laptop stationed on a high-gloss black dining table in the spacious room that covered more than half of the house’s ground level. The online auction on the screen revealed her interest in flowers was not limited to those found in nature. It also included paintings, a fact amply confirmed by the still-lifes with flowers that decorated many of the walls.
It took him about five minutes to compose Snap’s account of why he had murdered his wife and subsequently committed suicide. It was easy: his criminal activities had got to the point where he could no longer cope. Now René E. Eriksen, head of office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, would have to shoulder the full responsibility for the fraud, the killing of William Stark, everything.
Boy printed out the document, considering whether to sign it but opting instead to wait, folding the paper over the middle.
Then he went upstairs to the bedroom, sat himself in a floral patterned high-backed wing armchair at the dresser with all its little bottles of perfume, scented notepaper and envelopes that lay ready to accommodate the lady of the house’s effusions, opened the sash windows wide and gazed far out across the rain-drenched fields, waiting.
The halogen beam of the Mercedes’ headlights cut through the darkness, announcing Snap’s arrival almost a full minute before the car rolled up in front of the house.
Boy listened to the rummaging downstairs: shoes flipped off in the hall, briefcase dumped on the floor, a bit of food prepared in the kitchen, and then finally the ascent up the stairs.
Snap entered the bedroom with a plate in one hand and a glass in the other, closing the door behind him with his knee.
‘How’s your day been, darling?’ he said, placing his supper on the bedside table, then turned to the chair next to the bed and began to undress. ‘Mine wasn’t exactly sublime. I told Brage-Schmidt on the phone about René’s crazy behaviour this morning, so now he’s in for it.’ He laughed as he turned to look at her in his underpants, halfway into his pyjama top. ‘What are you watching? Have you fallen into a trance?’
He smiled and gazed at her, head tilted slightly to the side in puzzlement over her lack of interest in his arrival.
‘Are you angry? I said I wouldn’t be back until late. And why have you got the windows wide open, it’s freezing in here,’ he said, going round to the other side of the bed. He had just buttoned his pyjamas when his eyes met Boy’s.
The shock sent him recoiling backwards. Boy had never seen anyone so frightened.
‘Mind you don’t fall,’ Boy said. Snap sat down heavily at the foot of the bed, his mouth agape, lips quivering as his breathing went haywire.
‘Who are you?’ he stammered, then turned to look at his wife.
Another jolt shook his entire body.
A minute or two later, when the human wreck finally backed away from his wife’s corpse, he tried to look the black man in the eyes.
‘Are you one of Brage-Schmidt’s boy soldiers? How come you speak Danish?’ And when Boy didn’t answer, Snap began to tremble. ‘Who sent you? Not Brage-Schmidt, he’d never do a thing like that, why should he? He knows I can keep my mouth shut.’
Boy’s lips curled in a faint smile. Snap apparently found it provoking.
‘What the hell are you smiling for? You can just tell me what you want. A million? Ten million? I can give you ten.’
Boy shook his head. ‘I only want your signature, then I’ll leave.’
Snap was bewildered. His entire being protested against that utterance. His arms fluttered and his head bobbed up and down.
A signature? His astonishment shone like a neon sign. The man had just killed his wife, and now all he wanted was a signature?
Boy produced his folded sheet of paper and placed it on the dresser in front of Teis Snap, the blank half facing up.
‘Just sign here.’ He pointed to the empty white of the paper.
‘What’s on the other side? I won’t sign until I’ve seen it.’
Boy stood up calmly and adjusted his jacket. ‘Sign here or else you end up like your wife. I’ll count to ten. One, two, three, four …’ he produced a ballpoint pen from his inside pocket and handed it to Snap ‘… five, six, seven …’
‘What did you do to her?’ he stuttered, on the verge of breaking down in tears.
‘Sign,’ Boy replied, indicating the empty sheet of paper. And Snap signed. His hand trembled as he drew the pen unsteadily across the page, exactly as if he were signing his own suicide note.
‘Thank you,’ said Boy. ‘And now I want you to give me the Curaçao stocks. Then I’ll leave.’
‘You said –’
‘Give me the stocks. I know Lisa brought the certificates home with her in her suitcase. And now the suitcase is empty.’
‘How do you know that? Brage-Schmidt is the only person who knew. Did he tell you? Is he behind this, the bastard?’
‘Give me the shares and continue to live. Your wife broke her neck. She fell down the stairs. If that’s what you tell the police, they’ll believe you.’
Snap began to weep uncontrollably. It was not a good sign. People breaking down in situations like this meant you never knew if they were capable of making a rational decision. Right now, acting rationally meant fighting for one’s life.
‘Give me the certificates. Where are they? I’ve been through the whole house. Is there a hidden safe somewhere?’
Snap shook his head. ‘What makes you think I can tell you where Lisa put them? How am I supposed to know?’
‘Because if you don’t tell me right now, you will suffer. And believe me, I know how.’
He took a deep breath. ‘And my guarantee? How do I know you won’t …’ And then he began to sob again.
‘Because you know the power of money better than most. That’s how.’
Snap lifted his head and quickly wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. His professional persona had been challenged. Of course he knew the power of money. And just now the two of them were in the midst of negotiating.
‘I want to speak to Brage-Schmidt,’ he said.
Boy pulled his mobile from his pocket and pressed the number. ‘I’ll put the call through as soon as you tell me where the shares are. A little give and take, yes? He’s waiting for me to phone.’
Snap was livid now. The thought of having been stabbed in the back by his associate made him clench his fists until his knuckles showed white. For a moment it looked like he was about to lunge at the intruder, but that was fine with Boy. Ten broken fingers would probably make the man more cooperative.
‘Where are the shares?’ he asked again.
Snap jabbed a finger towards the dresser. ‘They’ve been right next to you the whole time, you son of a bitch.’
Boy drew the dresser’s floral curtain aside and exposed a drawer. He pulled it open, and there lay the share certificates, neatly bound together with a piece of wool.
At the same moment, Snap threw himself at Boy with a scream, fists pummelling.
It was the last thing he did.
When Boy pulled into his usual parking space he sat for a while in the car, staring at the raindrops that shimmered as they dispersed on the windscreen. These strangely gentle Danish spring showers were something he would think back on with sadness when the black rain clouds opened up in a downpour on the edge of the Rwenzori Mountains, where he intended to settle.
Now there were but hours until he was on his way. The thought filled him with satisfaction. He’d got what he had come to Karrebæksminde for. The suicide note lay on the dresser and the shares were in the briefcase at his side. It was a perfect allocation.
He smiled as he picked up the briefcase and climbed out of the car, slamming the door behind him, then entered Brage-Schmidt’s residence by the back door as usual.
Making sure as always not to be seen.