“Haven’t you found God yet?” his sister asked after the prayer, her dead gaze fixed upon him.
“No, I’m afraid Father must have beaten Him out of me.”
His brother-in-law raised his head deliberately and sent him a malicious glare. There was a time when he had been a handsome young man. Exuberant and full of ambitions about sailing the seven seas, exploring the corners of the world and the delights of all its luscious women. When then he found Eva, he fell in awe of her vulnerability and the beauty of her words. He had always known Jesus, though never as his best friend.
That was something Eva taught him.
“Speak respectfully of your father,” Villy said now. “He was a reverent man.”
He looked at his sister. Her face was without expression. If she had anything to say on the matter, now was the time. But she remained silent. Of course she did.
“You think our father’s in heaven, don’t you?”
His brother-in-law narrowed his eyes. That was his answer. One wrong word would suffice, it didn’t matter whether he was Eva’s brother or not.
He shook his head and returned his brother-in-law’s stare. Ignorant, unenlightened individuals, he thought to himself. If the vision of a paradise housing that callous, small-minded, third-rate clergyman was so dear to Villy, then he would certainly have nothing against helping him get there as quickly as he liked.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “There’s thirty thousand kroner in an envelope for you and Eva. For that amount of money, you’d do well to keep a grip on yourself for the half hour I’m here.”
He looked up at the crucifix on the wall above the disagreeable face of his brother-in-law. It was heavier than it looked.
He remembered. Its weight had been brought down against him.
He sensed them stirring in the back of the van as they crossed the great bridge that spanned the Storebælt. He pulled in for a moment at the toll area to give the two writhing bodies another whiff of chloroform.
As they settled again, he drove on, this time with the windows down and the annoying feeling that the second dose had been rather uncontrolled.
When eventually they reached the boathouse in Nordsjælland, it was still too light for him to lead the youngsters from the van. Out on the water, the last sailing boats of the day, the first of the season, were gliding back toward the marinas of Lynæs and Kignæs. One inquisitive soul with a pair of binoculars and all would be lost. The thing was, they were too quiet in the back of the van. It began now to concern him. Months of preparation would come to nothing if the chloroform had killed them.
“Come on, go down, for Chrissake,” he muttered to himself, his gaze fixed firmly on the recalcitrant bloodred sphere in the sky that had wedged itself into the horizon amid flaming cloud.
Then he took out his mobile phone. The family at Stanghede would already be worried by his failure to return with their children. He had promised them he would be back before the hour of rest, and it was a promise he had not kept. He pictured them at this moment, waiting at the table with their candles and their robes, their folded hands. This would be the last time they placed their trust in him, the mother would be saying.
In a moment, she would feel the real pain of being right.
He called. There were no introductions, just his demand of one million kroner. Used notes in a small bag they were to throw from the train. He told them which departure to take, when and where to change, and on which stretch and which side they were to look for the strobe. He would be holding it in his hand and it would flash as bright as a camera. They should not delay, for this was their only chance. On delivery of the ransom, their children would be returned.
They should not consider cheating him. They had the rest of the weekend and Monday to raise the sum. And on Monday evening they were to take the train.
If the amount delivered fell short, the children would die. If they involved the police, the children would die. If they should try to trick him during delivery, the children would die.
“Remember,” he said. “Money can be earned again, but the children will be gone forever.” At this point, he always allowed the parents a moment to gasp for breath. To take in the shock. “Remember, too, that you cannot protect your other children forever. If I suspect anything to be amiss, be prepared to live in perpetual fear. That, and the fact that this phone cannot be traced, are the only two things on which you can rely.”
And then he terminated the call. It was as simple as that. In ten seconds, he would hurl the phone into the fjord. He’d always had a good throwing arm.
The children were as pale as two corpses, but they were alive. He chained them inside the low-ceilinged boathouse, keeping them well apart. Then he removed their blindfolds and gags and made sure they did not regurgitate what he gave them to drink.
After the usual begging and pleading, the sobs and the fear, they accepted a small amount of food. His conscience was clear as he taped their mouths shut and then drove away.
He had owned the boathouse for fifteen years now, and no one besides himself had ever been near the place. The house to which it belonged was well hidden behind trees, and the stretch down to the water had always been overgrown. The only place from which this inconspicuous construction could on occasion be picked out was the water, but there were obstacles even there. Who would ever put in to that foul-smelling mush of seaweed and algae that extended across the net? The net he had drawn out between the fishing stakes after the time one of his victims had thrown something into the water.
The kids could whimper as much as they liked.
They would never be heard.
He looked at his watch again. He would not call his wife today before heading off toward Roskilde. Why should she know when to expect him home?
Now he would drive back to the cottage at Ferslev, put the van back in the barn, and then continue on in the Mercedes. In less than an hour, he would be home. And then he would see what to do with her.
The last few kilometers before he arrived, he found some kind of peace within himself. What had been the cause of this suspicion as regards his wife? Was it some failing of his own character? Did this unfounded doubt, these abominable thoughts, in fact find nourishment in the lies he thrived upon? Was it all not just a consequence of his own clandestine existence?
“The truth of the matter is we’re happy together,” he told himself out loud. It was his last thought before seeing the man’s bike leaning against the willow in the driveway of their house.
Before seeing it, and before realizing that it was not his own.
17
There had been a time when their morning phone calls had given her a boost. Just the sound of his voice had been enough to see her through days without human contact. The thought of his embrace could see her through anything at all.
But it wasn’t like that anymore. The magic was gone.
She had promised herself she would call her mother and patch things up with her. The day had passed, and morning came without her getting around to it.
What was she supposed to say? That she was sorry they had drifted apart? That perhaps she had been wrong? That she had met another man, and that he allowed her to see things in a new light? That he filled her with words that made her unable to hear anything else? She couldn’t tell her mother any of this, that much was plain to her. But all of it was true.
The unending vacuum in which her husband had left her had now been filled.