37
He stood between the trees of the windbreak, from where he had a view of most of the estate without being seen himself. The sight that met his eyes was disconcerting indeed.
He had prepared himself for a confrontation with Snap over the Curaçao stocks and had expected it might become violent, which was why he carried a medium-duty hammer in the near-bottomless depths of his coat pocket. It was poorly suited to knocking in nails, but eminently effective against the skimpy armour of a man such as Snap.
‘If they can attack me physically, then I can strike back,’ René had reasoned, before noticing the sweep of flashing blue lights against the whitewashed wings of the house.
The courtyard in front of the house was a bustle of activity. There were maybe ten vehicles in all, among them two ambulances. It was the ambulances he watched with particular attention, and twice the paramedics carried shrouded bodies from the house. He almost dared not consider whether it was Teis and Lisa on those stretchers, but who else could it be? No one else lived there.
There were also a lot of men milling about, most of them presumably local police, but also some who were not. Police technicians in white smocks, their superiors in plain clothes and, worst of all, Carl Mørck and his Arab assistant. So they were that close to them now. How fortunate that the fool Mørck had brought with him the day before had come back and unwittingly let him know how interested they were. Otherwise, he probably would not have got away in time.
René looked out over the lawn with sheets of paper everywhere. It was a disheartening sight. One sheet with writing on it was caught in the poplar a couple of metres above his head. Typewritten, with a signature at the bottom. How terrible to think that Lisa might have been writing those very words when it happened.
When it happened. He tried to comprehend the true weight of those three words.
Rather, when what happened? Who had done it, and why? Was it the same people who had attacked him and his wife?
He had more or less decided the incident was Snap’s doing, but now he no longer felt so sure.
But who, then?
He had never met Brage-Schmidt but, according to rumour, it was no coincidence the man had amassed a fortune, that he was incredibly dynamic and efficient in all he did. Dynamic and efficient. Again, attributes that could be interpreted in so many different ways.
René closed his eyes and ran the situation through in his mind. Brage-Schmidt was a young man no longer, so obviously he had hired someone to do this, if indeed he was behind it. But what was his motive? Was it the same as what had brought René himself to Karrebæksminde?
He gazed across at the array of people and ambulances that were silently departing towards town. Two minutes ago he had been prepared to stay put until everyone had gone, but now, where he had begun to think more rationally, he realized there was no need.
It was about money. Lots of money. And this was almost definitely no exception.
The figures still milling in the front of the house now spread out in all directions. A couple of officers were slowly coming his way, apparently combing the lawn and surrounding areas. They’re probably looking for footprints, he thought, as he looked back over his shoulder to see his own deep imprints in the earth.
He knew it was lucky he hadn’t got there first, for otherwise he would have left traces all round the house. He retreated warily back along the line of trees and down to the main road, where his car was discreetly parked.
When finally he opened the door and got inside, he felt certain. The bodies on the stretchers had been those of Teis and Lisa, and they had been murdered. Brage-Schmidt had played a crucial role throughout their scam, and René was convinced he still did. Greed knew no bounds. Not in his own case, either. If Brage-Schmidt had had these people killed in order to grab the Curaçao stocks, then they almost certainly were in his possession now.
In any case, he was willing to drive the hundred kilometres north to find out.
Wrought-iron lanterns, a fountain with no water, rustic latticework in front of all windows. This was how the former consulate for a number of Central African states looked. Grandiloquent and ugly.
René locked the car and buttoned his coat. Of course he could put an old man like Brage-Schmidt in his place, and if not, the hammer lay ready in his pocket. Now it was his turn to demonstrate that he was dynamic and efficient.
The door knocker was stiff on its hinges. He probably doesn’t get that many visitors, he mused, knocking once more and noting that with lights on in so many windows somebody had to be home.
His eyes found a gate in the wooden fence that surrounded the garden with its tall fir trees. Perhaps he could go through there and catch a glimpse into some of the rooms. Then he’d know better whether Brage-Schmidt was home alone.
As a boy he would on rare occasion pluck up the courage to sneak into his neighbours’ gardens on Twelfth Night and blacken their windows with a sooted cork, but that was many years ago. And qualified jurists who had made a career in the civil service did not count the furtive sneaking about in which he now engaged as being among their greatest skills. For that reason, he felt awkward and clumsy as he sprang from shrub to shrub, eyes fixed on the light from the windows that flooded out into the garden.
That must be the living room, he thought, as he tiptoed forward.
It was a room that more than anything reminded him of the myth of Ernest Hemingway, or perhaps just a poor B-movie. Never had he seen as many hunting trophies in one place. Buffalo and antelope, beasts of prey and animals he had rarely even seen pictures of, all mounted in neat rows, glass eyes and glossy pelts side by side with the weapons to which they had succumbed.
He felt disgust as he crept closer. Now he could hear a man’s voice. It had to be Brage-Schmidt’s, with his characteristic compressed rasping voice brusquely barking out sentences that lacked either warmth or patience.
‘If you saw him in Østerbro today, heading out of town in a taxi,’ the hoarse voice said, ‘then I suggest you think hard about where he might be now. And when you’ve found out, let me know. If you can’t get hold of me, make sure the Africans are fully informed.’
There was a pause in the conversation. René moved forward. He had not seen Brage-Schmidt before, so his plans might have to change if it turned out the man’s physique still fitted the chauvinistic image he’d striven to cultivate with his hideous display of slaughtered animals.
‘No, I don’t know where your people are. That’s your job, not mine,’ the voice continued. ‘That’s the way it is, Zola. Do your job, or else get the fuck out.’
It was clear to René now that this was a one-way conversation. The man was probably on the phone.
He listened more closely and followed the sound to a patio door that stood ajar a few metres away. Here was a way into the house. What luck.
A few more steps and he was there. What a brilliant surprise it would be. Finally, the two of them would meet. Finally, they could settle the account that had been years in the making.
He gripped the hammer, stepped up to the door, and found himself staring into the eyes of a black man with a mobile phone to his ear. He was quite young and possessed a voice that was one hundred per cent Brage-Schmidt’s.
A second passed before the man hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He seemed calm, far less surprised than René.
‘Come inside,’ he said, in a completely other voice. ‘You must be René Eriksen. Welcome.’
René frowned and accepted the invitation, his grip tightening around the shaft of the hammer in his pocket.
‘Yes, and you? Who are you? And why were you impersonating Brage-Schmidt?’
The man smiled and sat down. Perhaps he was trying to instil in him the same kind of confidence as an executive offering a cup of coffee to an underling before giving him the sack. It wasn’t reassuring.
‘It’s a long story. Won’t you sit down?’
‘I prefer to stand. Where is Brage-Schmidt?’
‘In the drawing room next door. He’s taking a nap at the moment, so you’ll have to wait a bit until I wake him.’
‘And while he’s asleep, you look after the business, I suppose.’
The man spread out his hands. That’s how it appeared.
‘So you’re who we’ve been holding conference calls with on the phone the past couple of years?’
Again, the extended black hands with their white palms.
‘Every time?’
‘Conceivably. Mr Brage-Schmidt has had a lot of business to attend to lately.’
René looked around the room. Behind the African, double-barrelled shotguns and slender rifles hung from the wall, and above them, hunting bows and quivers of arrows. Mounted vertically next to them were two needle-sharp spears with broad, double-edged heads. On the floor beside a low elephant-foot table stood a bin made from the hollowed-out foot of a rhinoceros, full of what looked like an assortment of cudgels. To the other side was a vitrine containing knives for almost every conceivable purpose.
It wasn’t exactly the place he would choose for an armed confrontation. In that case, it would be wise to withdraw immediately. The odds were against him in an arena like this, hammer or not.
‘So I can’t speak to Brage-Schmidt now?’ he asked.
The African shook his head. ‘I think it best we make an appointment for tomorrow. How about ten a.m.? I know he’ll be able to receive you then.’
René nodded. By ten o’clock tomorrow he’d be far, far away. So he would just have to make do with what he’d earned from selling off his shares in Karrebæk Bank. He’d get by, all the same.
‘OK, that’ll be fine. Tell him I’m looking forward to meeting him.’
The African stood up. ‘And what may I tell him it’s about?’
‘It’s nothing special. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.’
Then the man put out his hand, but René was wary and held back, turning instead towards the patio door with a brief word of thanks. He’d be back at ten in the morning.
He reached for the doorknob, but the African lunged forward and delivered a swift, brutal karate chop to René’s throat.
‘You’re going nowhere. I don’t trust you,’ he spat, as René sank to his knees, gasping for air.
‘Tell me why you’re here.’
René tried, but couldn’t. Every muscle in his throat was paralysed, and his right arm as well.
It was obvious that the African was about to strike him again, so René raised his left hand and waved it in submission.
He felt a warmth spreading from his right shoulder as blood trickled down his arm. Which was when he produced the hammer and smashed it into the African’s knee.
He’d expected a roar of pain, but not a sound passed the man’s lips, even though his leg buckled sideways and his eyes were wide with agony.
‘You devil,’ he snarled, toppling forward and clamping René’s head in what felt like a potentially fatal grip. René raised his hammer again and struck, forcing the African to let go. When the man got to his feet, blood from his hand was dripping onto the floor, but still he bore the pain.
Two pairs of eyes immediately sought the spears that were mounted on the wall, but the African had the advantage of already being upright and began limping towards them as René struggled to get to his feet and stop him.
The man was alarmingly agile, despite his injuries. The resoluteness of his reactions and the lack of hesitation filled René with mortal dread. Now he knew who he was dealing with. It was one of the people Teis Snap had told him about. One of the boy soldiers.
And he realized this was a fight he couldn’t win.
It made him let go of the straw to which most people would cling when looking death in the face and instead watch the man’s movements as he pulled the spear from the wall.
‘Why did you come here and what is your business?’ the African asked calmly, as he aimed the weapon directly at René from a distance of only two metres.
‘I’ve been to Karrebæksminde and seen what you did to Teis Snap and his wife. It was I who called the police and told them they should come out here. But I had no way of knowing for sure if I was right, so I came to warn Brage-Schmidt ahead of time in case it turned out I was wrong.’
The man’s lips curled in an oddly false smile. ‘What you’re telling me is not true, is it?’
René shook his head. ‘No. I came here to kill him myself. Are you one of the boy soldiers Snap told me about?’
‘No. I am Boy.’
‘Then farewell, Boy.’ René swung the hammer above his head and straight into the man’s body, leaping aside at the same moment.
Nevertheless, Boy’s spear plunged through the palm of his left hand and came out the back.
Strangely enough he felt no pain until he grasped the shaft and pulled.
As his whole arm exploded in pain from the severed nerves and ruptured muscles, he staggered towards the glass showcase with its display of knives, gasping for air and keeping his eyes fixed on the African, who was already bending down to pick up the hammer.
Slowly and deliberately, he limped towards René with his eyes fixed on his throat and the hammer raised.
He could throw it, but that wasn’t what he wanted. It was clear he wished to be as close to his victim as possible when he killed him.
Facing Boy, René jerked his elbow backwards and broke the glass of the showcase. He pulled out a knife, whose length and weight more than matched the hammer.
Now he had the knife in his hand, yet he kept backing up towards the wall. At that precise moment he simply lacked the will to use it.
He felt a door handle behind him, turning it at the same instant the African lunged with the hammer aimed at his throat.
At that precise moment René felt as if he were not present. His body had separated from his brain, his limbs from his torso, his bleeding hand from his arm. Only the hand holding the knife retained a life of its own, protecting his.
By the time the blow came, René had drawn the knife to his throat, and instead of the hammer striking him, the knife warded off the blow and sliced into the hand of his attacker, so deeply that blood spurted from the artery in the African’s wrist.
Boy was stunned and tried to draw back, but somehow René held on to him, blood soaking his skin, and the hammer fell to the floor.
Only now did he see the unfettered rage boiling in the African’s eyes. Boy tried to head-butt him as the blood drained from his body. As René jerked his head back, his body pushed open the door behind him, causing both men to tumble into the adjoining room.
The African lay gasping on top of him, teeth snapping at René’s throat. Then his movements became slower and slower, until eventually there were none.
René tried to catch his breath. He was no longer a young man, and right now it felt like the shock and the adrenalin threatened to make his heart stop. Then suddenly, in a single deep intake of breath, the reaction came, and with it the sense of disgust. He pushed the dead man away and lay staring up at the ceiling for a long time before being able to turn over on the floor and actually see where he’d landed.
He found himself looking directly at a pair of feet. Two pole-like legs and the sort of sturdy lace-up shoes that usually only a rambler might wear. Slowly his eyes moved up the legs, well aware that it was Brage-Schmidt standing above him. He also realized that the man had the advantage, and that all he had managed to survive until now had been in vain.
Then he closed his eyes and gave himself up to his fate.
Our Father, who art in Heaven … he prayed silently. It had been so many years since the last time he had recited the words. And now they returned to him on this final day.
With a strange feeling of calm he raised his eyes towards his executioner, only to discover that the man sat in a wheelchair and that his eyes were completely empty.
René got to his feet so abruptly that he almost slipped in the blood on the floor.
The man in front of him was totally paralysed. The shelves that surrounded him were filled with pill bottles. On the windowsill were unopened packets of incontinence pads. On the table were bottles of spirits, cotton swabs, disposable bedpans and foam-rubber wipes of the kind used in hospitals.
René bent forward towards the man and looked directly into his eyes. There was no reaction. None whatsoever.
He stepped over the African’s body, picked up one of the wipes and wrapped it around his hand, from which two of his fingers hung by tendons. He could do no more about it until he was far away from there.
Then his eyes fell upon a green cardboard folder on which Brage-Schmidt’s full name and civil registration number were printed.
He opened it, and his eyes grew wide as he scanned the first page.
Brage-Schmidt’s hospital records described in objective detail the circumstances of his brain haemorrhage and the date it occurred: 4 July 2006. Way before their fraud began. So that was why he had never turned up in person at board meetings. And why the African who called himself Boy had been impersonating him.
René shook his head. ‘I wonder what would have happened if you hadn’t ended up like this,’ he said out loud, and patted the man’s cheek.
What a miserable life he’d had. He would be better off dead than go on living like the vegetable he’d become.
He went through the house until he found Boy’s room with a suitcase packed and ready to go. And there were the shares. Neatly gathered in a bundle bound with yarn.
He picked them up and held them to his chest for a moment. Then he realized he had left a trail of bloody footprints all over the house, not to mention his own blood that had been spilled.
So he returned to Brage-Schmidt’s room, finding a box of matches on his way. He paused briefly and regarded the motionless figure in the wheelchair before placing his good hand around the man’s mouth and nose and pressing hard until the breathing ceased. It was peaceful and quite without drama.
Oh Lord, you poor man, he thought. No need for you to suffer what’s to come.
Then he picked up a bottle of surgical spirits from the table and emptied it over the two bodies.
As he stepped back to light the match, he noticed the dead African lay with his head tipped back enough to reveal an upper set of dentures. He stood for a moment and considered this baroque coincidence. Then he made an impulsive decision. He removed the false teeth from the corpse and put them in his pocket, after which he replaced them with his own.
Then he picked up another bottle of spirits and doused the African once more before backing up and striking the match.
There was a deep, muffled sound as the fumes ignited, and a blue flash of light illuminated the musty room like a sudden burst of sparkling midday sunshine.