“Can we not go home, then?” came a quiet voice from below.
Carl glanced through the hatch at Assad. Was this really the man who had been in a fistfight with Samir Ghazi? The man who could break down a door with one kick and who once had saved Carl’s life? If it was, then he had plainly gone downhill during the last five minutes.
“Are you going to throw up, Assad?” Thomasen inquired.
Assad shook his head. Which only went to show how little the man knew of the joys of seasickness.
“Here,” said Carl, thrusting a spare pair of binoculars into Assad’s hand. “Just breathe easily and go with the movement of the boat. Try to keep your eye on the coastline there.”
“I cannot leave the bench, Carl,” Assad replied.
“That’s OK. You can see perfectly well through the window.”
“You probably needn’t bother with this stretch here,” Thomasen said, steering directly toward the middle of the fjord. “It’s mostly just sandy beach and fields going down to the water’s edge. Our best bet’s probably to go up toward Nordskoven. That’s all woods down to the fjord, but then quite a few folk live there, so it’s doubtful a boathouse could be kept hidden.”
He gestured toward the road that ran north-south along the eastern side of the fjord. Flat agricultural land, dotted with tiny villages. Poul Holt’s killer certainly couldn’t have holed up on that side of the fjord.
Carl looked at his map. “If the theory about fjord trout is right, and if Roskilde Fjord here isn’t the place to look, then that means we need to be over on the other side of Hornsherred, on the Isefjord. The question is, where? Judging by the map, there don’t seem to be that many possibilities. It’s mostly agricultural land, fields down to the water’s edge. Where could anyone have a hidden boathouse there? And if we carry on to the Holbæk side or farther north toward Odsherred, we’ll be too far, because that would take a lot longer than an hour from the site of the kidnapping in Ballerup.” He suddenly became doubtful. “Or would it?”
Thomasen gave a shrug. “Not if you ask me. My guess would be an hour.”
Carl took a deep breath. “In which case, we just have to hope our theory about that local paper is sound. Otherwise, this is going to be a tall order indeed.”
He sat down on the bench next to the suffering Assad, who was by now a grayish shade of green and trembling. His double chin was in constant motion due to his involuntary regurgitation, and yet he still had the binoculars pressed against the sockets of his eyes.
“Give him some tea, Carl. The wife’ll be upset if he throws up on her covers.”
Carl pulled the basket toward him and poured a cup without asking.
“Get this down you, Assad.”
Assad lowered his binoculars slightly, took one look at the tea, and shook his head. “I will not throw up, Carl. What comes up, I swallow again.”
Carl stared at him, wide-eyed.
“This is how it is when riding camels in the desert. A person can become so weary in his stomach. But throwing up in the desert is to lose too much liquid. It is a very silly thing to do in a desert. That is why!”
Carl gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Well done, Assad. Just keep your eyes peeled for that boathouse, eh? I’ll not bother you anymore.”
“I am not looking for the boathouse, because then we will not find it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think it is very well concealed. Perhaps not between trees at all. It may be in a heap of earth or sand, or under a house, or in some thicket. It was not very tall, remember this.”
Carl picked up the other pair of binoculars. His assistant was obviously not all there. He’d better do the job himself.
“If you’re not looking for a boathouse, Assad, what are you looking for?”
“For the thing that rumbles. A wind turbine or some similar thing. Something that can rumble this rumbling sound.”
“I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult, Assad.”
Assad looked at him for a moment as though he had tired of his company. Then he convulsed so violently that Carl drew back to be on the safe side. And when he had finished, he said in what was almost a whisper: “Did you know that the record for sitting against a wall as though in a chair is twelve hours and something, Carl?”
“You don’t say?” He sensed that he probably looked all question mark.
“And did you know that the record for standing up is seventeen years and two months?”
“Get out!”
“Oh, but it is, Carl. An Indian guru. He slept standing up in the night.”
“Really? I didn’t know that, Assad. What are you trying to tell me?”
“Just that some things look more difficult than they are, and some things look easier.”
“I see. And?”
“Let us find that rumbling sound, then we shall speak no more of this.”
What kind of logic was that?
“All right. But I still don’t believe that story about standing up for seventeen years,” Carl rejoined.
“OK, but do you know what, Carl?” Assad looked at him intensely, then convulsed again.
“No, tell me.”
Assad raised his binoculars. “That is up to you.”
They listened and heard the hum of motorboats, the chugging of fishing vessels, motorbikes on the roads, single-engine planes photographing houses and farms so the tax authorities could make new appraisals on which basis to fleece the country’s citizens of their savings. But no constant sound, nothing that might provoke the rage of the National Association of the Enemies of Infrasound.
Klaes Thomasen’s wife picked them up at Hundested, and Thomasen promised to ask around if anyone knew of a boathouse like the one they were looking for. The forest officer at Nordskoven would be a good place to start, he said. The sailing clubs likewise. He assured Carl he would resume the search the following day. The forecast said dry and sunny.
Assad was still looking queasy after they were dropped off and continued south in their own car.
Carl felt a sudden affinity with Thomasen’s wife. He didn’t want Assad to puke on his covers, either.
“Give us a nudge if you’re going to be sick, Assad, yeah?” he said.
His assistant nodded absently. Most likely it wouldn’t be a matter of choice.
Carl repeated the appeal as they came into Ballerup.
“Perhaps we should have a little stop,” said Assad after a pause.
“OK, can you wait two minutes? I’ve something to do first, it won’t take long. It’s on the way to Holte. I’ll drive you home after.”
Assad said nothing.
Carl gazed ahead. It was dark now. The question was, would they even let him in?
“I need to drop in on Vigga’s mother, you see. Something I promised Vigga I’d do. You OK with that? She lives at a care center just around here.”
Assad nodded. “I did not know Vigga had a mother. What is she like? Is she nice?”
It was a question that for all its simplicity was so hard to answer that Carl almost drove through a red light on Bagsværd Hovedgade.
“When you have been there, can you then drop me off at the station, Carl? You are going north, and there is a bus right to my door from there.”
Assad certainly knew how to preserve his anonymity. His family’s, too, for that matter.
“No, I’m afraid you can’t visit Mrs. Alsing now. It’s much too late for her. Come back tomorrow before two o’clock, preferably about elevenish. That’s when she’s most lucid,” said one of the caregivers on evening duty.