And then he saw the dark-skinned policeman draw the girl out through the door and into his arms, stepping backward toward him in the process. The same little Arab from the bowling center. The one who’d rugby tackled Pope. What was he doing here?
How had they found him?
He turned the hammer in the air and brought the flat side down hard against the nape of the man’s neck. He fell without a sound, the girl on top of him. She looked up with empty eyes, long since reconciled to her fate, and then closed them. One forceful blow away from death. But it would have to wait. She was no threat to him now anyway.
He looked up, preparing himself for the second policeman to come out.
Legs appeared in the door opening again. He heard the man assuring the boy that everything would be all right.
And then he struck.
The policeman slid to the ground.
He let go of the hammer and stared at the two unconscious men, listening for a moment to the wind rushing in the trees, the rain against the paving stones on the path. The boy was alerted now, his movements inside the boathouse audibly agitated. But otherwise there was no sound.
He picked up the girl in his arms and heaved her back into the boathouse in one seamless movement, slammed the door shut, and fastened the bolt with the split pin.
He straightened up and glanced around. Apart from the boy’s protests, all was still quiet. No sirens. No sounds that didn’t belong. At least, not yet.
He took a deep breath. What might he expect now? Were more police on their way, or were these two working off their own bat, trying to impress their superiors? He needed to know.
If they were on their own, he could carry on with his plan. But if they weren’t, he would need to make a getaway. Whatever the circumstances, he would have to get rid of all four of them as soon as he knew one way or the other.
He was back at the outbuilding in leaps and bounds and snatched up the baling twine that hung behind the door.
He had tied people up before. It didn’t take long.
There was a commotion from inside the boathouse as he secured the unconscious men’s hands behind their backs. It was the boy, yelling now at the top of his lungs, demanding to be let out. Screaming that his parents would never pay if he and his sister didn’t come home.
He was a fighter. He’d give him that.
And then the lad began to kick at the door.
He checked the bolt. It had been years since he had fixed it to the door, but the timber was still good. It would hold.
He dragged the two men away from the boathouse, so the light from the outbuilding would illuminate their faces. Then he pulled the larger of the pair half upright until he sat bent double on the path.
He got down on his knees in front of him and slapped him hard and repeatedly in the face. “Hey, wake up!” he commanded.
Eventually, the detective came around. His eyes rolled in his head. He blinked a couple of times and tried to focus.
They stared at each other. The roles were reversed now. He was no longer the suspect questioned at a table in a bowling alley, having to account for his whereabouts.
“Bastard piece of shit,” the officer mumbled. “We’ll get you. Backup’s on its way. We’ve got your prints.”
He stared into the detective’s eyes. The man was clearly still stunned. His pupils reacted too slowly when he leaned aside and let the light from the outbuilding fall suddenly on his face. Maybe that was why he was so surprisingly calm. Or was it because the man simply didn’t believe he was capable of killing them?
“Backup. Nice try,” he replied. “But let them come, by all means. You can see all the way to Frederikssund across the fjord from here,” he said. “We’ll see the blue lights as soon as they hit Crown Prince Frederik’s Bridge. Plenty of time to do the necessary before they get here.”
“They’ll come from the south. From Roskilde. You’ll see fuck all, you bastard,” said the policeman. “Let us go. Give yourself up. You’ll be out in fifteen years. If you kill us, you’re a dead man, I promise. Shot by police, or else you’ll rot away serving a life sentence. Same difference. Police killers don’t survive in this system.”
He smiled. “You’re talking like someone had hit you on the head. And you’re lying. And if you don’t answer my questions, you’re going to be in that tank over there in the outbuilding in…” he glanced at his watch “…let’s say twenty minutes from now. You and the kids, and your mate there. And do you know what?”
He thrust his face into the policeman’s. “I’ll be long gone.”
The banging from the boathouse intensified. It was more forceful now, and more metallic. Instinctively, he glanced toward the spot where he had dropped the hammer.
His instinct was right. It was gone. The girl must have picked it up without him noticing before he carried her inside. Shit. She hadn’t been as far gone as he’d thought, the sneaky little bitch.
He drew the knife slowly from his belt. There was no alternative now.
52
Strangely, Carl wasn’t frightened. Not because he doubted that the man in front of him was insane enough to kill him without a moment’s hesitation, but because everything around him seemed so very peaceful. Clouds drifting across the sky, blotting out the moon. The gentle lapping of the fjord. The smell of the earth. Even the hum of the generator behind him felt calming. It was odd.
Maybe it was all still down to the blow he had been dealt. At any rate, his head was throbbing, shifting all focus from the pain in his arm and shoulder.
Then came the banging from the boathouse again. Louder than before.
He looked at the man. He had taken a knife from his belt.
“You want to know how we traced you, am I right?” Carl said, sensing some feeling return to his hands that were tied behind his back. He glanced up into the drizzling rain. It was the wet, making the twine expand. He needed to gain time.
The man’s eyes were cold as stone. Then came a slight twitch of the lip.
He was right. If there was one thing the bastard wanted to know, it was how they had found him.
“There was a boy once, a boy called Poul. Poul Holt, do you remember him?” he asked, soaking the twine in the wet grass behind him. “He was a bit special, was Poul.” His hands were working now, twisting and straining indiscernibly.
He allowed his words to hang in the air and nodded reflectively. There was no hurry. Regardless of whether the twine held or not, the longer he kept the killer’s attention, the longer they would remain alive. He smiled to himself. It was interrogation in reverse. How ironic.
“What about him?” the man demanded to know.
Carl laughed. The intervals between hammering from the boathouse were longer now, but the blows sounded more precise.
“Long time ago now, isn’t it? Do you remember? That girl in there wasn’t even born then. Or maybe you never think about your victims? No, of course you don’t.”
At that, the man’s expression changed, and a shiver ran down Carl’s spine.
In one swift movement, the man sprang to his feet and pressed the knife to Assad’s throat. “You answer me now. No more bullshit, or your friend here will be choking on his own blood. Are you with me?”
Carl nodded, his hands working. The guy meant what he said, no doubt about it.
And now he turned toward the boathouse. “I’m going to make you suffer before you die, if you keep that up, Samuel. Believe me!” he yelled.
The banging stopped for a second. Carl could hear the girl sobbing inside. And then Samuel continued.
“Poul managed to send a message in a bottle. You should have chosen a better place to shut people away than a boathouse over water,” Carl said.
The man frowned. A message in a bottle?
Now the twine began to give. “It turned up in a fishing net off the coast of Scotland some years ago. And eventually it ended up on my desk,” he went on, his wrists working purposefully and without pause.