Rachel lowered her gaze. “Isabel,” she said. “We’re here in Nordsjælland, don’t you realize? We can’t get on the train from Viborg. We won’t be on it to see the strobe between Odense and Roskilde.” She looked up at Isabel and yelled her frustration into her face. “How can we throw him the bag? HOW?”
Isabel grasped her hand again. It was as cold as ice. “Rachel,” she said calmly, “we’ll get there. We’ll drive to Odense now and meet Joshua on the platform. We’ve plenty of time.”
At that moment, Isabel saw something in Rachel she hadn’t seen before. She saw, standing in front of her, not a mother who had lost her children or a farm wife from Dollerup Bakker. All of a sudden, there was nothing rural or motherly about her at all. She was someone else. Someone Isabel had yet to fully encounter.
“Have you thought why he wants us to change trains at Odense?” Rachel asked. “There are so many other possibilities, aren’t there? I’m sure it’s because we’re being watched. Someone will be at the station in Viborg and then again in Odense.” Then she looked away and her thoughts turned inward. She could ask questions but was unable to supply any answers.
Isabel thought for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. He just wants to hassle you. I’m certain he’s on his own in all this.”
“How can you be certain?” asked Rachel, without looking at her.
“Because that’s the way he is. He’s a control freak. He needs to know exactly what’s happening and when. And he’s calculating, too. He strolled into this local bar, picked me out as a victim straightaway, and was giving me perfectly timed orgasms only hours later. He could lay on breakfast and say things that would stay in my mind the rest of the day. Everything he did was part of the plan, and all of it performed by a virtuoso. He wouldn’t be capable of working with anyone else, and besides, that ransom would be too small if there were accomplices involved. He’s not the kind to share.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“What if I am? Does it matter? We’re the ones issuing the ultimatum tonight, not him. Putting these things in the ransom bag proves that we’ve been here at his hiding place.”
Isabel looked around the dilapidated property. Who was this scheming individual? Why was he doing this? With his good looks, his intelligence, and his ability to manipulate others, the sky would seem to be his limit in any normal life.
It was hard to fathom.
“Let’s get going,” Isabel said. “You can call your husband on the way and put him in the picture. And then we can dictate to him what to write in the note.”
Rachel shook her head. “I’m not sure. I’m scared. I mean, I’m with you up to a point, but aren’t we putting the kidnapper under a lot of pressure here? Isn’t he going to give it all up and get out?” Her lips were quivering now. “And what about my children, if he does? Won’t they suffer? Perhaps he’ll do them harm, something terrible. You hear about these things.” Tears welled in her eyes. “And if he does, what do we do then, Isabel? What do we do then?”
28
“What the hell happened out there in Rødovre, Assad? I’ve never heard Antonsen sound off like that before.”
Assad shifted uneasily in his chair. “Nothing to worry about, Carl. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
A misunderstanding? Presumably the French Revolution had broken out over a misunderstanding, too.
“In that case, you need to explain to me how a so-called misunderstanding can lead to two grown men rolling around the floor of a Danish police station knocking the stuffing out of each other.”
“Stuffing?”
“Yes, the stuffing. It’s an idiom. For Chrissake, Assad, you know perfectly well there was a reason you laid into Samir Ghazi like that. And it’s about time you came clean. I want a decent explanation. Where do you two know each other from?”
“We don’t actually know each other at all.”
“Oh, come on, Assad, don’t give me that. People don’t go around beating up strangers for no reason. If it’s something to do with family reunification or forced marriage or someone’s fucking honor, then I want to know-now! We need to get this into the open, otherwise I won’t have you here, are you with me? Remember, Samir’s the policeman, not you.”
Assad turned his head toward Carl with a wounded look in his eye. “I can leave right now, if that is what you wish.”
“I hope for your sake that my long-standing friendship with Antonsen will be enough for him not to make that decision on my behalf.” Carl leaned across the desk. “Listen, Assad, when I ask you something, I expect you to answer. And if you don’t, it tells me something’s wrong. Maybe something serious enough to affect your residence here in this country, not just lose you this fucking fantastic job of yours.”
“You will perhaps persecute me, then?” Hurt was too mild a word to describe the man’s demeanor.
“Have you and Samir had any altercation with each other before? In Syria, for instance?”
“No, not in Syria. Samir is from Iraq.”
“So you admit there’s a grudge. But you still don’t know each other?”
“Yes, Carl. Would you please not ask me any more about this?”
“I’ll think about it. But if you don’t want me to ask Samir Ghazi for a report on this fight of yours, you’re going to have to give me something to go on and calm me down a bit. And you’re definitely to stay away from Samir from now on, understood?”
Assad sat for a while staring into space before nodding. “I am to blame for one of Samir’s relatives now being dead. It was never my intention, Carl, you must believe this. The truth is I did not even know.”
Carl closed his eyes for a moment.
“Have you committed any crime in this country?”
“No, I swear at you, Carl.”
“Swear to me, Assad. You swear to me.”
“Yes, that is what I do.”
“So this all happened some time ago?”
“Yes.”
Carl nodded. Maybe Assad would open up another day.
“Have a look at this, you two.” Yrsa barged in through the door without knocking. She had a serious look on her face, for once, and was holding a sheet of paper out in front of her. “It’s a fax from the Swedish police in Ronneby. Just in two minutes ago. This is what he looked like.”
She put the fax down on the desk. It wasn’t a photofit, pieced together on a computer. This was the real thing. A proper drawing, with shading and all the rest of it, and in color to boot. A male face, pleasing at first blush, but which on closer inspection displayed a number of jarring elements.
“He looks just like my cousin,” Yrsa commented drily. “A pig farmer from Randers.”
“I had not imagined him to look like this exactly,” said Assad.
Carl hadn’t, either. Short sideburns, dark mustache neatly trimmed back above the lip. Hair slightly lighter, precisely parted. Thick eyebrows almost converging. Unremarkable, half-full lips.
“We need to bear in mind that this drawing may not reflect his true appearance. Remember, Tryggve was only thirteen at the time, and just as many years have passed since all this happened. Our man probably looks different now anyway. But how old would you say he was here?”
They were about to reply, but Carl stopped them. “Look closely. The mustache might make him look older than he is. Write down your guess here.”
He tore off a couple of pages from a notepad and handed them to his two assistants.