Earlier in the day they had almost succeeded in bringing him in. It had cost one of Mammy’s boy soldiers a twenty-centimeter gash in his hip before they managed to extract him from a rubble chute, and another one now sported an eye so bloodshot that he had to wear sunglasses in order not to attract attention. They had almost caught him, which was good, but insufficient.
This Marco was the fluttering butterfly in South America that could trigger a storm in Japan. The one that could start a domino effect. And Boy no longer wished to be a part of it. He took his precautions out of principle, for Brage-Schmidt had taught him that principles were more important than anything else.
If they captured this boy, everything would be all right. If they didn’t, or if he managed to get the police involved, there was no telling what might happen. Zola had assured him that Marco couldn’t possibly know anything of significance, but then why had there been police speaking with Eriksen at the ministry today? They had come too close by half, so from now on Boy had his own agenda.
Needless to say, Brage-Schmidt would be no hindrance, but a rebellious Eriksen, or an obstinate Teis Snap in particular, was another matter. Snap was the only one with a hotline directly to Boy, and if it wasn’t disconnected it could end up like the cannula delivering a lethal drug into the veins of a condemned man.
The fact of the matter was that the attempt on Eriksen’s life had been a spectacular failure, so consequently the man was now doubtless clutching his Danish share certificates tightly to his chest, not letting them out of his sight for an instant. A while ago Boy had called Eriksen’s home number pretending to be a colleague and had learned from the man’s wife that the little worm had not come home from work and she had no idea where he was.
He assumed, therefore, that Eriksen was already on the run. It was just as well.
Zola wasn’t much of a problem either. He didn’t have Boy’s number because the SIM card was changed after every call between them. They had never met in person, and it was Boy who phoned him, never the other way round. Zola was a conceited, arrogant fool, hurtling toward the abyss like a lemming. It was only a question of when and where he would finally go over the edge.
Teis Snap, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. An amorphous type who could break down at any time, which was unfortunate given that the man had to complete an overview of the facets of their operation and would be able to point a finger in any number of directions if things went wrong, which for him they already had. He had gambled with his bank’s assets. He had miscalculated when they selected their stooge in the ministry. Snap was the man Eriksen threatened because he was the easiest. Moreover, at this moment he was in possession of the gold Boy had been digging for, namely the unregistered stocks even a half-wit could hardly fail to turn into double-digit millions. Euros, at that.
And Boy was determined to take all of it with him.
–
The long gravel track leading up to Teis Snap’s house near Karrebæksminde was lined by an avenue of trees. This remote location was ideal for those who craved space, horses, and affordable land, allowing the leeway for personal extravagance in the form of lavish buildings and a fleet of cars.
Boy had never been there before yet quickly realized that in order not to draw attention to himself he would need to park behind the outbuildings, where his car couldn’t be seen from the main house.
He got out of the car and listened. If there were dogs, he would deal with them first. He hated the erratic nature that dogs in the countryside often displayed. In fact, he hated all dogs, apart from the one he himself had owned.
There were four buildings in all. White, well-renovated stables and a main house that reeked of a man who let his wife make the decisions. He had expected the property to be grandiose and sterile, but instead he found himself looking at black wagon wheels decorating the end wall and trellises resplendent with purple clematis.
Boy scanned the courtyard in front of the house. Besides a black 4x4 and the ubiquitous white Mini Cooper convertible, there wasn’t much to meet the eye, but it was enough.
He frowned, pausing for a moment with his finger poised at the brass doorbell, considering what he would do if it turned out there were guests in the house.
Then he pressed the bell and waited.
Incredibly enough, Snap was still married to his first wife, Lisa. Brage-Schmidt’s theory was that the age difference was what kept them together, but judging by her photos, looks might have had something to do with it, too.
Boy heard her inside the house, but the door remained closed. Most probably she was peering at his CCTV image on a screen in the hall. The camera was pointed straight at him.
“I am Brage-Schmidt’s private secretary,” he announced, looking into the lens.
The possibilities were several, providing she heard what he said. Most likely she wouldn’t let him in, in which case he would have to go round the back of the house and smash a window. He would gain entry one way or another.
“I see. Is my husband expecting you?” came a voice from a speaker he couldn’t locate.
“Yes. Hasn’t he come home yet?” Her silence told him she was alone. “I can come back,” he went on. “Although we’d agreed a time. Actually, I’m ten minutes late, so perhaps he’s on his way as we speak. I can wait out here, the weather’s nice, and I’ve all these lovely flowers to admire.”
He stood quite still for a moment, smiling benignly, his gloved hands folded in front of the bottom button of his jacket, like an undertaker who stands in the background as the bereaved pay their final respects. It signaled humility and unobtrusiveness, the kind of strategy one learned only from the best of teachers.
Twenty seconds passed before she opened the door and barely had time to introduce herself before he grabbed her head, jerked it to the side, and broke her neck. Soundlessly and without pain, so swiftly that she could hardly have registered what was happening.
He carried her body upstairs to the bedroom, propping her up at an angle with pillows on the bed, then turned her face to the side and switched on the television.
He took his time checking the house. Rifling discreetly through people’s things was a skill long since acquired. Items could be opened or inspected in many ways using the proper fingertip touch. It took half an hour to go through the place without finding what he was looking for. The scenario was more complicated now, though not unexpected.
After deleting all footage from the security camera at the front door, he discovered the wife’s turned-on laptop stationed on a high-gloss black dining table in the spacious room that covered more than half of the house’s ground level. The online auction on the screen revealed her interest in flowers was not limited to those found in nature. It also included paintings, a fact amply confirmed by the still lifes with flowers that decorated many of the walls.
It took him about five minutes to compose Snap’s account of why he had murdered his wife and subsequently committed suicide. It was easy: his criminal activities had gotten to the point where he could no longer cope. Now René E. Eriksen, head of office at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, would have to shoulder the full responsibility for the fraud, the killing of William Stark, everything.
Boy printed out the document, considering whether to sign it but opting instead to wait, folding the paper over the middle.
Then he went upstairs to the bedroom; sat himself in a floral patterned high-back wing armchair at the dresser with all its little bottles of perfume, scented notepaper, and envelopes that lay ready to accommodate the lady of the house’s effusions; opened the sash windows wide; and gazed far out across the rain-drenched fields, waiting.