Carl pictured Tryggve’s face and could only agree.
“The family’s paranoia about the killer’s threat became plain whenever they heard anyone speak Danish. They moved on from Skåne to Blekinge, with two further relocations before settling at their present address in Hallabro. But everyone in the family received clear instructions never to let anyone speaking Danish into the house, and never to involve themselves with anyone outside their religious community.”
“And Tryggve protested?” Bente Hansen asked.
“Indeed he did, and for two reasons. Firstly, he wouldn’t stop talking about Poul. He loved his brother dearly and had got himself believing in some roundabout way that Poul had given up his life for him. And secondly, because he fell desperately in love with a girl who wasn’t a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“So then he was ostracized,” Lars Bjørn added, some seconds having elapsed since he had last heard the sound of his own exasperating voice.
“Exactly. Tryggve was ostracized.” Carl picked up the thread again. “He’s been on the outside for three years now. He moved a few kilometers down the road, absorbed himself in his relationship with the girl he had met, and took on a job as a service assistant at a timber outlet in Belganet. Neither his family nor other members of the local congregation ever spoke to him, even though his job was close to the family home. In fact, they’ve only spoken once, after I got in touch with the family. And on that occasion, the father did everything he could to impress upon Tryggve that he should keep his mouth shut. Which he did, until the moment I showed him the message his brother had sent in the bottle. That knocked him for six. Or rather, it sent him flying back into the real world, you might say.”
“Did the family ever hear from the killer again after the kidnapping?” someone else asked.
Carl shook his head. “No, and I don’t think they ever will, either.”
“Why not?”
“Thirteen years have passed now. My guess is he’s got other things to attend to.”
Silence descended again. The only sound to be heard was Lis’s relentless chatter out front. Someone had to man the phones.
“Is there anything at all to indicate there might be other cases similar to this one, Carl? Have you looked into that?”
Carl sent a grateful glance in the direction of Bente Hansen. She was the only one in the room he hadn’t had any altercations with over the years and probably the only person in the department who never needed to assert herself. She was one of the lads, no two ways about it. “I’ve got Assad and Yrsa-that’s Rose’s temp-contacting support groups for apostates from all the various sects. If we’re lucky, that might give us some information about kids who have been ostracized or who have simply left their congregations of their own accord. It’s not much to go on, but the communities themselves are only going to stonewall us if we approach them directly.”
A couple of the guys glanced at Assad, who looked like he had just got out of bed, even if he did have his day clothes on.
“Maybe this might be best left to professionals, people who know what they’re doing?” one of them suggested.
Carl halted proceedings. “Who said that?”
One of the guys stepped forward. Pasgård, his name was, a hard case. Good at his job but the sort who shoved his way to the front to be interviewed whenever there was a TV camera around. Probably saw himself running the place in a few years. Someone should make sure he never got a look-in.
Carl narrowed his eyes. “OK, smart-arse, maybe you’d like to share with us your exceptional knowledge about religious sects and similar communities in Denmark who might be at particular risk of being targeted by a man such as the one who murdered Poul Holt? Would you care to pick out a couple for us now, while we’re here? Let’s say five, to be getting on with?”
Pasgård made noises, but Jacobsen’s wry smile put him under pressure.
“Hmm!” He gazed around the room. “Jehovah’s Witnesses. The Baptists aren’t a sect, I suppose, but then there’s the Moonies…Scientology…the Satanists and…the Father House.” He gave Carl a triumphant look, then nodded smugly around the room.
Carl pretended to be impressed. “OK, Pasgård, you’re right in saying that the Baptists aren’t a sect, but then again neither are the Satanists, unless you’re thinking specifically of the Church of Satan. So you’re still one short. Any offers?”
The guy’s mouth twisted pensively. The great world religions flashed through his mind, only to be dismissed. Carl could almost see the names forming on his silent lips. Then he finally came up with an answer, to sporadic applause: “The Children of God.”
Carl, too, applauded, albeit briefly. “Well done, Pasgård, we’ll bury the hatchet here. There are a lot more sects, religious movements, and free churches in this country than you’d think, and the majority of them aren’t exactly household names.” He turned to Assad: “Are they, Assad?”
The little man shook his head. “No, a person must do his homework first.”
“Have you done yours?”
“Not quite finished yet, but I can mention a couple more if that would be relevant?” Assad glanced across at the homicide chief, who nodded.
“Well, in that case one could name the Quakers, the Martinus Society, the Pentecostalists, Sathya Sai Baba, the Mother Church, the Evangelists, the House of Christ, the UFO cosmologists, the Theosophists, Hare Krishna, Transcendental Meditation, the Shamanists, the Emin Foundation, the Guardians of Morality, Ananda Marga, the Jes Bertelsen movement, the disciples of Brahma Kumaris, the Fourth Way, the Word of Life, Osho, New Age, arguably the Church of the Transfiguration, the New Pagans, In the Master’s Light, the Golden Circle, and perhaps also the Inner Mission.” He took a deep breath, replenishing his empty lungs.
This time, there was no applause. The message that expertise was multifaceted had sunk in.
“Thank you, Assad.” Carl gave a slight smile. “As I was saying, religious communities are many and varied. And a large number of them worship either a leader or a community in such a way that they automatically turn in on themselves after a while and become closed units. Given the right conditions, the pickings are rich indeed for a psychopath such as Poul Holt’s killer.”
The chief stepped forward. “You’ve now been filled in on this murder case. A case outside the jurisdiction of our own district, though close enough. We’ll leave things at that for the time being and allow Carl and his assistants to proceed.” He turned toward Carl. “Any further assistance you might need, you come to me.”
Jacobsen turned to Pasgård, whose indifferent eyelids were already drooping over his frigid eyes. “And to you, Pasgård, I’d like to say that I find your enthusiasm exemplary. I’m glad you consider the department to be sufficiently well equipped to take on the case, but we on the third floor must keep a focus on those we are already investigating. Quite a job in itself, wouldn’t you say?”
The idiot was forced to nod. Anything else would have made him look even more stupid.
“However, since you so strongly believe the case would be better off with us rather than Department Q, perhaps we should accord it some attention. I’d say we could release one man. And that, Pasgård, would be you, since you’re so eager.”
Carl felt his jaw drop, the air compress in his lungs. Were they really going to have to work with this moron?
A single look was sufficient for Marcus Jacobsen to catch on to the dilemma. “I understand a fish scale was found on the paper on which the message was written. So Pasgård, if you would make sure we know what kind of fish we’re dealing with, as well as where the species might be found within a one-hour radius of Ballerup?”
He ignored Carl’s startled expression. “And one more thing, Pasgård. Bear in mind the location may be in the vicinity of wind turbines or something that makes a similar kind of noise, and that whatever the source of that noise might be, it had to have been there in 1996. Understand?”