He had been waiting for the right moment at which to strike. She had been selected, and the fact was anything but flattering in view of how everything had panned out since.
The thought made her shudder.
She shuddered again when she opened a wooden filing box from the same packing case. At first glance, there was nothing special about it. Just a box containing lists of names and addresses unfamiliar to her. But on closer inspection of these papers she started to feel uneasy.
Why was this information so important to her husband? She was in the dark.
For each name on the list, a page of systematically ordered data was attached concerning the person in question as well as their family. First the religion they subscribed to. Then their status within their church community, followed by length of membership. More personal details followed, especially concerning children: names and ages and, most disturbingly, more intimate observations such as Willers Schou, 15 yrs. Not his mother’s favorite, but father extremely attached to him. Headstrong. Participation in church meetings erratic. Suffered colds most of the winter, twice confined to bed.
What did her husband want with such information? And how did the listed incomes of these families concern him? Was he some sort of a spy working for the social authorities? Had he been selected to infiltrate religious sects in Denmark to uncover incest, violence, and other atrocities?
The uncertainty of it preyed horribly on her mind.
Seemingly, his work took him all over the country, so he would hardly be in the employment of any local authority. Yet neither did it seem likely that he was in the service of any government agency. Would data like this be kept in packing cases at home?
What, then? Private investigator? Was he on the payroll of some wealthy individual, charged with digging up dirt on religious communities?
Maybe.
Her uncertainty was compounded when she came to a document at the bottom, on which, beneath the details concerning the family, were printed the words: 1.2 million. No irregularities.
She sat for a while with this piece of paper in her lap. As in the other cases, the information it contained concerned a family with a relatively large number of children and that was associated with a religious sect. This particular document was no different from the others apart from this last line and one additional detaiclass="underline" one of the children’s names had been ticked. A sixteen-year-old boy about whom it was stated that he was loved by one and all.
Why had his name been ticked? Because he was loved?
She chewed on her lip and felt utterly lacking in ideas and initiative. All she knew was that everything inside her was screaming for her to get away. But was it the right thing to do?
Maybe this could give her leverage? Maybe it was how she could make sure Benjamin stayed with her. But as yet, she had no notion how.
She put the final two packing cases back inside the room. They contained nothing of consequence, only a few odd things of his they had found no use for.
Finally, she laid the coats carefully in place on top. The only sign of her indiscretion now was the indentation in the lid of one of the packing cases from when she had been looking for the phone charger, and even that was barely visible.
He won’t notice, she told herself.
And then the doorbell rang.
Kenneth stood in the dwindling dusk with a gleam in his eye. As they had agreed, he held in his hand a crumpled edition of the day’s paper, just as he had done the day before, ready to inquire as to whether their copy had arrived today. Prepared to deliver some spin about having found it in the road outside and how newspaper boys didn’t seem to care less these days. All just in case her face signaled alarm when she opened the door, or if, against all expectations, her husband should answer.
This time she had no idea what expression to wear.
“Come in, but only for a minute,” she said.
She glanced out across the road. It was getting dark now, and all was quiet.
“What’s up? Is he on his way home?” Kenneth asked.
“No, I don’t think so. He would have called.”
“What, then? Are you not feeling well?”
“No.” She chewed her lip again. What good would it do to involve him in all this? Wasn’t it best to leave him out of her life for a while so that he wouldn’t get mixed up in what was bound to come? Who would be able to prove any relationship between them if they broke off contact for a time?
She nodded to herself. “No, Kenneth, I’m not quite myself at the moment.”
He remained silent, scrutinizing her. The keen eyes beneath his blond eyebrows were skilled in detecting danger. They had registered immediately that something was amiss. They had observed that whatever it was might impact on the feelings he no longer wished to keep in check. His defense instinct was awakened.
“Tell me what’s wrong, Mia. Please tell me.”
She pulled him away from the door of the living room where Benjamin sat happily in front of the television as only small children can. It was on little Benjamin she needed to concentrate her resources.
She would have turned to face him and told him there was nothing to worry about, but that she would have to go away for a while.
But at that same moment the headlights of her husband’s Mercedes dissected the dusk in the driveway outside.
“You’ve got to go, Kenneth. Back door. Now!”
“Can’t we-”
“NOW, Kenneth!”
“OK, but my bike’s in the drive. What do you want me to do?”
Perspiration seeped from her armpits. Should she run away with him now? Just walk out through the door with Benjamin in her arms? No, she couldn’t do it. She was too scared.
“I’ll make something up. Just go! Through the kitchen, so Benjamin won’t see!”
And then he was out, milliseconds before the key rasped in the lock and the front door opened.
She was sitting on the floor in front of the television with her legs out to the side, her arms around her son in a tight embrace.
“There you are, Benjamin,” she said. “Daddy’s here. Now we’ll have lots of fun, won’t we?”
18
On a foggy Friday in March, the primary route E22 traversing Skåne has little to recommend it. If you took out the houses and the road signs, you could just as easily be on your way from Ringsted to Slagelse, Carl thought to himself. It was flat, overcultivated, and devoid of anything that might be considered even remotely interesting.
And yet he could name at least fifty of his colleagues from HQ whose eyes lit up like fairy lights at the mere mention of Sweden. In their view, all human needs, without exception, could be satisfied as long as the blue and yellow flag happened to be fluttering over the landscape. Carl gazed out through the windscreen and shook his head. Apparently, he was missing something. That special gene that cast a person into raptures of delight at the utterance of even the smallest word of Swedish.
Only when he reached Blekinge did the landscape raise itself into something more becoming. It was said that when the gods distributed rocks across the earth, their hands were unsteady with fatigue by the time they reached Blekinge. While certainly more pleasing to the eye, there was little else to look at but trees and rocks. It was all still Sweden.
Not exactly deck chairs and Camparis, he mused as he drove into Hallabro, passing the usual combination of kiosk, petrol station, and auto repair shop with deals on refinishing jobs before continuing along Gamla Kongavägen.
In the dwindling light of day, the house seemed nicely situated up above the town. A drystone wall marked the boundary of the garden, and the light shining from three windows indicated that the Holt family had not been unduly alarmed by Assad’s telephone call.