“Opposite the factory site there,” said Assad, pointing to a redbrick house that exuded about as much life as an earthworm suicide in a winter field.
A diminutive woman with eyes even bigger than Assad’s opened the door. The instant she saw Assad’s stubbly face, she jumped back into the hall with a start and called for her husband to come. No doubt she had read tabloid stories about robberies in the home and thought she was about to become a victim.
“What do you want?” said the man. Clearly, no hospitality was in the offing. Not even ordinary politeness.
Carl reckoned his best bet was to pursue the taxman line and stuck his police ID back in his pocket.
“You have a son, Flemming Emil Madsen. According to our records, he hasn’t been paying his taxes. He’s not registered with the social authorities, or the educational authorities for that matter, so we thought it best to come and see him in person.”
Assad intervened. “You are a greengrocer, Mr. Madsen. Does Flemming work for you?”
Carl understood the tactics. Get the man into a corner from the start.
“Muslim, are you?” the man answered. It was a surprising utterance, an excellent counter. For once, Assad looked stumped.
“I think that would be a personal matter for my colleague,” said Carl.
“Not in my house, it wouldn’t,” the man replied and made to slam the door in their faces.
Carl produced his badge.
“Mr. el-Assad and I are trying to clear up a number of unsolved murders. If you so much as look at me sideways, I’m going to arrest you on the spot for the murder of your son Flemming five years ago. Are you following me?”
The man said nothing, though he was obviously shaken. Not the way a man unjustly accused would be, but like one who was as guilty as hell.
They stepped inside and were directed to sit at a brown mahogany table that would have been every family’s dream fifty years ago. There was no cloth on it, but an abundance of place mats.
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” said the wife, fingering the crucifix that dangled from her neck.
Carl glanced around. At least three dozen framed photos of children of all ages were dotted about the place on various items of oak furniture. Children and grandchildren. Smiling individuals with big skies above their heads.
“These are your children, I take it?” Carl asked.
They nodded.
“And all of them emigrated?”
They nodded again. Words were seldom used here, Carl thought to himself.
“To Australia?” Assad inquired.
“Are you a Muslim?” the man asked again. He was sticking to his guns. Bloody cheek. Was he afraid that the sight of someone who subscribed to another faith might turn him into stone, or what?
“I am what God made me,” Assad answered him. “What about you? Would that be true for you, too?”
The man’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps he was more used to that kind of conversation taking place on other people’s doorsteps than inside his own home.
“I asked if your children had emigrated to Australia?” Assad repeated.
The wife nodded. So her head was screwed on, after all.
“Here,” said Carl, and placed the police artist’s drawing of the kidnapper on the table in front of them.
“In the name of Jesus,” the wife breathed, making the sign of the cross on her chest. Her husband pursed his lips.
“We’ve never said a word to anyone,” he said curtly.
Carl fixed his gaze on him. “If you think we’re in cahoots with this man in any way, you’re mistaken. But we’re on to him. And you can help us catch him.”
The wife let out a gasp.
“I apologize if you find us insensitive,” said Carl. “We needed you to be honest with us as quickly as possible.” He jabbed at the drawing. “Are you able to confirm that this was the man who kidnapped two of your children, and that he killed Flemming after receiving a large ransom?”
The man paled visibly. All the strength he had drawn on over the years to keep himself afloat now seeped out of him. The strength to resist grief, to lie to his fellow believers, and to make a new life away from everything he knew. The strength to isolate himself, to say good-bye to the remaining children, and to carry on after taking the financial knock. And not least, the strength to live with the knowledge that the man who had murdered their beloved son remained at large and was watching them.
He let go of it all, in a house in Tølløse.
They sat quietly in the car for a while before Carl spoke.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone quite as depleted as those two,” he said.
“It was very hard for them when they took out the photograph of Flemming from the drawer, I think. Do you really believe they had never looked at it since they lost him, Carl?” Assad asked, wriggling out of his down jacket, having finally realized it wasn’t that cold.
Carl shrugged. “Hard to tell, really. They certainly haven’t been willing to risk someone getting a whiff of how much they still loved the boy. Their story was that they kicked him out themselves.”
“A whiff? I am not sure of the meaning of this, Carl.”
“Get a whiff of something. Like a hunting dog getting a whiff of its prey.”
“Prey?”
“Never mind, Assad. These people kept their love for their son secret. No one else was to know. They could never tell who was a friend and who might be an enemy.”
Assad gazed for a moment out toward brown fields that would soon sprout with life. “How many times do you think he has done this, Carl?”
How the fuck was he supposed to answer that? There was no answer.
Assad scratched his dark cheeks. “We have to catch him now, Carl. Yes? We simply must.”
Carl clenched his teeth. Yes, they had to catch him now. The Tølløse couple had given them a new name. Birger Sloth was what he had called himself then. The police artist’s likeness had stood up for the third time. Martin Holt had been right. The eyes of the man they were looking for had been rather farther apart. Everything else-the mustache, the hair, the look in his eyes-were things they had to disregard. What they were looking for was a man whose features were sharp and yet somewhat indistinct at the same time. The only thing they could be a hundred percent certain about was that he had collected a ransom in the same place on two different occasions. A short stretch of railway between Sorø and Slagelse, and they already knew the spot. Martin Holt had described it in detail.
They could be there in twenty minutes, only now it was too dark. Bollocks.
It would be their first priority in the morning.
“What shall we do about our Yrsa and Rose?” Assad asked.
“Nothing. We’ll just try to live with it, that’s all.”
Assad nodded. “Most probably she is a camel with three humps,” he mused.
“A what?”
“This is what we say where I come from. Rather apart. Hard to ride, but funny to look at.”
“A three-humped camel. You might be on to something there, Assad. It sounds a lot better than schizophrenic, anyway.”
“Schizophrenic? Where I come from, this is what we say about the man who praises another while shitting on him with his arse.”
There he went again.
38
It was all so fuzzy and far away. Like the end of a dream that never reached its conclusion. Like a mother’s voice barely recalled. “Isabel. Isabel Jønsson, wake up!” The words echoed, as though her skull were too vast to keep them together.
She tried to move and felt nothing but the heaviness of sleep bearing down on her. The drowsy sense of floating between then and now.
Someone was trying to rouse her, pulling at her shoulder. Gently. Repeatedly.