“Too bad for you,” said the man, though clearly his curiosity had yet to be satisfied.
It wasn’t hard to read his thoughts. How could a message in a bottle possibly harm him? None of the children he had held captive in the boathouse over the years had any way of knowing where they were. How could a message in a bottle change that?
Carl detected a movement in Assad’s leg.
Stay put, Assad. Sleep on. There’s nothing you can do anyway. The only thing that could help them now was if he could loosen the twine around his wrists sufficiently for him to get his hands free. And even then there was no telling what would happen. The man was strong and unscrupulous and brandishing a very nasty-looking knife. The blow to Carl’s head had undoubtedly slowed his reactions. All in all, there was little hope. If only he had called Roskilde for backup, so their aid would come from the south, they might have had a chance. But the Frederikssund police could hardly avoid heralding their own arrival. The bastard was right about that. As soon as they hit the bridge, the sky would light up blue. That would be in a couple of minutes at the most. And then it would all be over. He realized that now. The twine was still too tight.
“Get out of here, Claus Larsen, or whatever your name is. Get away while you still have the chance,” Carl spat, as the blows Samuel was delivering to the door suddenly took on a deeper resonance.
“You’re right about one thing, at least. My name’s not Claus Larsen,” the man said, still straddling Assad’s lifeless body. “And you’ve no idea as to my true identity. What’s more, my guess is that you and your mate are all on your own tonight. So why would I want to run away? What makes you think there’s anything at all for me to be afraid of?”
“Get going, whatever your name is. It’s not too late. Disappear and find yourself another life. We’ll be looking for you, but maybe you can repent in the meantime. Are you capable of that?”
The twine gave unexpectedly.
He stared into the man’s eyes and saw the reflection of blue. Police cars crossing the bridge. The end had come.
Carl straightened his back and drew his legs up beneath him. The man looked up, seeing the blue lights burst forth into the sky, mirrored in the fjord. He raised the knife into the air above the defenseless Assad. And at that moment Carl launched himself forward, headlong into the man’s leg. The kidnapper staggered and fell, still with the knife in his hand, then clutched at his hip and gave his assailant a look Carl was sure would be the last thing he ever saw.
And then his hands were free.
He scrambled to his feet and put up his guard. Empty hands against the man’s knife. What good would it do? He sensed how dazed he still was. Unable to run, however much he wanted to. However much the monkey wrench on the floor of the outbuilding beckoned, he was unable to coordinate his limbs and run. Everything around him seemed to contract and expand at once.
He staggered a couple of steps backward as the man got to his feet with the knife pointed toward him. His heart pounded, his head throbbed. Mona’s gorgeous eyes flashed before him.
He planted his feet to keep himself steady. The paving stones were slippery, and once again he felt the mush of slugs on the soles of his shoes.
The flashing blue reflections from the bridge were no longer visible. They would be here in five minutes. If he could just hold his ground a little longer, he might be able to save the children’s lives.
He looked up at the branches of the trees hanging over the path. Could he reach them and perhaps pull himself up? He took another step backward.
But now the man rushed forward with the blade aimed at Carl’s chest, his eyes flaming with rage.
What sent him flying was a small foot, shoe size barely 40.
Assad stuck out his short leg, striking the man’s ankle just enough to knock him off balance. At first, it looked like he would manage to stay upright, but then his bare feet went from under him in the gastropods’ slime. There was a sickening smack as his cheek hit the paving. Carl stepped forward immediately and kicked him as hard as he could in the stomach until he let go of the knife.
Carl picked it up, then hauled the man to his feet. He stared into his eyes and pressed the blade against his jugular. Behind them, Assad struggled to raise himself onto his elbow, only to vomit and fall back. A stream of Arabic expletives issued from his mouth along with the bile of his stomach. If the sound of his invective was anything to go by, he was going to be all right.
“Do it,” said the man. “I’m tired of your ugly face.”
And abruptly he thrust his head forward in a desperate suicide bid. Carl saw it coming and jerked the knife away from him. The blade nicked the man’s throat. The wound was superficial.
“I thought as much,” the man sneered, blood now running down his neck. “You can’t, can you? You haven’t got the guts.”
He was wrong. One more move like that and Carl knew he would let the man run himself through on the blade. Assad would be his bleary witness that the man had effected his own death. So let him just try. Save the courts the bother.
At that moment, the noise from the boathouse ceased.
Carl glanced over the man’s shoulder and saw the door fly open.
And then the bastard in front of him was in his face again.
“You never said how you found me. Still, it’ll come out at the trial,” he said. “How long did you reckon I’d get? Fifteen years, was it? It’ll be a doddle.” He threw his head back and began to laugh. Any second now and he could make a renewed thrust toward the knife. His decision.
Carl tightened his grip on the shaft, fully aware of how horrific an experience it would be.
Then came a sound like the breaking of an egg. A short, rather unremarkable sound. The man sank to his knees and slumped silently onto his side. Carl looked up at Samuel, standing before him with the hammer in his hand, eyes red with tears. He had smashed open the lock from the inside using the hammer. Where the hell had he got it from?
Carl looked down. He dropped the knife from his hand and bent over the man, who lay twitching on the ground. He was still breathing, but the life would be gone from him in minutes.
What he had witnessed was an execution. Premeditated murder. The man had already been restrained. The boy had almost certainly realized that.
“Drop the hammer, Samuel,” he said and glanced toward Assad. “It was self-defense. We agree on that, don’t we, Assad?”
Assad cocked his head and thrust out his lower lip.
His reply came in spurts as he threw up. “We are always in agreement, Carl. Are we not?”
Carl considered the crumpled figure lying in the slime on the path in front of him. The kidnapper’s mouth was agape, his eyes wide open.
“Fuck you,” the man breathed.
“Fuck you, too,” said Carl.
The sound of sirens came through the woods.
“They say confession makes for an easier death,” Carl said quietly. “How many have you killed?”
The man winked. “Many.”
“How many?”
“Many.”
And then he seemed to succumb. His head lolled to the side, exposing the terrible injury to the back of his skull. That, and the long line of a ruddy scar behind his ear.
A gurgling sound came from his mouth.
“Where’s Benjamin?” Carl demanded, urgently now.
The man’s eyes closed slowly. “He’s with Eva.”
“Who’s Eva?”
He winked again, a strained movement. “My ugly sister.”
“What’s your name? I need a surname. Who are you?”
The man smiled, then uttered his final words:
“I’m Chaplin.”
EPILOGUE
Carl was knackered. He dumped a folder on top of a pile in the corner.
Case closed. Solved and done.