Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
Ditlev gazed out across the landscape, where the forest slowly took shape ahead of them. A calm fell over him. All in all, it had been a reasonably good end to an otherwise rather out-of-control week.
‘What about the police?’ Ulrik asked.
‘That, too. This Carl Mørck has been removed from the case.’
They arrived at Torsten’s estate, stopping some fifty yards from the gate and turning their faces up to the cameras. In ten seconds the gate between the fir trees a little further ahead would glide open.
Ditlev dialled Torsten’s number on his mobile as they drove into the courtyard. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘Drive down past the breeding house and park there. I’m in the menagerie.’
‘He’s in the menagerie,’ he told Ulrik, already feeling the excitement rising in him. It was the most intense part of the ritual, and definitely the part that Torsten, at least, looked forward to most.
Time and again they had seen Torsten Florin scurrying about among half-naked fashion models. They had seen him bathed in the spotlight and heard the gushing praise
of influential people. But never had they seen him exhibit such pleasure as when they visited the menagerie before a hunt.
The next hunt would be on a weekday. Not yet scheduled, but early the following week. On this occasion only those who’d previously won the right to shoot the special prey of the day would be allowed to participate. Only those who had a taste for such experiences, and who had benefitted materially from these hunts. People they could trust; people like them.
Ulrik parked the Rover just as Torsten came out of the building with blood on his rubber apron.
‘Welcome,’ he said, beaming. So he’d just slaughtered an animal.
The hall had been expanded since they’d last been there. It was longer and brighter, with numerous glass partitions. Forty Latvian and Bulgarian workers had done their part, and Dueholt had begun to resemble what Torsten had made his personal ambition for his private home sixteen years earlier, when he’d already made his first millions by the age of twenty-four.
In the hall there were perhaps a hundred or more cages with animals inside them. All of them lit by halogen lights.
For a child, a tour in Torsten Florin’s menagerie would be a more exotic experience than a trip to the zoo. For an adult with even a limited understanding of animal welfare, it would be shocking.
‘Look at this,’ Torsten said. ‘A Komodo dragon.’
He was clearly enjoying himself, as though in the midst of an orgasm, and Ditlev understood why. Seeing as these
animals were dangerous, and protected species as well, this wasn’t your ordinary prey.
‘I think we’ll take that one to Saxenholdt’s estate when the snow comes. Down there the hunting area is easier to survey, and these devils are fantastically good at hiding. Can you imagine it?’
‘Their bite is the most infectious on the planet, I’ve heard,’ Ditlev said. ‘So the shot has to be right on target, before it has a chance to lock its jaws on to the shooter.’
They saw Florin tremble as if he had the shivers. Yes, it was very good prey he’d procured for them. How had he managed it?
‘What will it be next time?’ Ulrik asked, curious.
Florin spread his hands. That meant he had an idea, but they would have to discover it for themselves.
‘Our choices are over here,’ he said, pointing at cage after cage containing small animals with big eyes.
It was as clean as a clinic inside the building. With their vast, collective miles of digestive system and correspondingly enormous quantities of metabolic waste, it was thanks to Torsten’s excellent, dark-skinned staff that the animals did not leave an overwhelming stench of urine and shit in the hall. Three Somalian families lived on his estate. They diligently swept, prepared food, dusted and cleaned the cages, but disappeared whenever guests arrived. You couldn’t risk people talking.
In the last row, six tall cages stood side by side, silhouettes huddled inside.
Ditlev smiled when he looked into the first two. The chimpanzee was well proportioned, but it had a pair of aggressive eyes that were trained on the animal in the next
cage: a wild dingo that stood with its tail between its legs, shaking, while saliva flowed from its bared teeth.
He was just so incredibly creative, Torsten. Far beyond the pale of what society deemed acceptable. If animal rights organizations ever caught a glimpse of his world, he would face prison and fines in the millions. His empire would collapse overnight. Self-respecting women of means had no problem wearing animal fur, but a chimp frightened half to death by a dingo or forced to run screaming for its life through a Danish deciduous forest –
that
would make them opt out.
The final four cages held more ordinary animals. A Great Dane, a giant billy goat, a badger and a fox. Except for the fox, these animals lay in the hay, staring out at them as if they had understood their fate. The fox simply stood in the corner, trembling.
‘Of course you’re thinking,
What’s going on here?
But I’ll explain.’ Florin put his hands in his apron’s side pockets and nodded at the Great Dane. ‘You see, that one there has a pedigree going back one hundred years. It cost me the tidy sum of two hundred thousand kroner, but with those nasty, slanty eyes, I don’t think it should be allowed to continue passing on its ugly genes.’
Ulrik laughed, as could be expected.
‘And you should know about this special creature, too.’ He nodded at the next cage. ‘You probably recall that my greatest hero is the barrister Rudolf Sand, who kept a strict record of his trophies for almost sixty-five years. He really was a legendary killer.’ He nodded to himself and drummed on the bars so the animal pulled away, its head lowered and its horn threatening. ‘Sand dropped 53,276
wild animals, exactly. And a buck like this one was his most important and biggest trophy. It’s a corkscrew goat, perhaps better known as a Pakistani Markhor. You see, Sand hunted a male Markhor in Afghanistan’s mountains for nearly twenty years until finally, after one hundred and twenty-five days of intensive tracking, he managed to bring down a monstrous, ancient buck. You can read about his experience on the Internet. I recommend it. You’d have to search far and wide to find a hunter his equal.’
‘And this is a Markhor?’ Ulrik’s smile was murderous in itself.
Torsten was revelling in it. ‘It sure as hell is, and just a few kilos lighter than Rudolf Sand’s. Two and a half kilos, to be exact. A fine specimen. That’s what you get from having contacts in Afghanistan. Long live the war.’
They laughed and turned to the badger.
‘This one lived for years just south of the estate here, but the other day it came too close to one of my traps. I have quite a personal relationship with this little troll, I’d like you to know.’
So that means it’s off limits
, Ditlev thought.
Torsten will take care of it himself one day.
‘And then there’s this one, Fantastic Mr Fox. Can you figure out what makes him special?’
They studied the quivering fox for a long time. It seemed frightened, but nevertheless stood looking at them, its head completely still, until Ulrik kicked at the cage door.
It bolted at them so fast that its snapping jaws got hold of the toe of Ulrik’s boot. Both he and Ditlev jumped. Then they noticed the froth around its mouth, the crazy
eyes and recognized that death was about to claim this creature.
‘Jesus Christ, Torsten, this here is definitely diabolical. This is the one, isn’t it? The animal we’re hunting next week, am I right? We’re going to set free a fox with advanced rabies.’ He laughed jovially, so that Ditlev also had to laugh. ‘You’ve found an animal that knows the forest inside out, and with rabies no less. I can hardly wait until you tell the other hunters. Damn, Torsten. Why didn’t we think of this before?’
At this Torsten joined in the laughter until the hall resounded with the rustling and hissing of animals seeking safety in their prison’s deepest corners.
‘It’s good you’re wearing those thick boots, dear Ulrik,’ he laughed and pointed at the teeth marks that had imprinted themselves in his custom-sewn Wolverine. ‘Otherwise we’d have to take a trip to Hillerød Hospital, and that would be hard to explain, don’t you think?
‘One more thing,’ Torsten said, leading them to the part of the hall with the brightest light. ‘Have a look!’
He pointed at a shooting range built as an extension of the building. It was a cylindrical tunnel, almost seven feet high and at least fifty yards long. Well marked, yard by yard. With three targets. One for a bow and arrow, one for a rifle and finally one with a steel-plated accumulation box for heavier calibres.
They also inspected the walls inside the tunnel, impressed. At least fifteen inches of soundproofing. If anything outside was capable of hearing shots, it could only be a bat.
‘There are air nozzles all the way round, so we can
simulate all types of wind conditions in the shooting tunnel.’ He pushed a button. ‘This wind force gives a deviation that demands a correction of two to three per cent with a bow. You can see the table over there.’ He pointed at a small computer screen on the wall. ‘All types of weapons and wind simulations can be keyed in.’ He stepped into the lock. ‘But first you need to know how it actually feels. We can’t very well take all this equipment out into the forest, now, can we?’
Ulrik followed him. His thick hair didn’t move an inch. On that point Torsten probably had a scalp better-suited as a wind-force indicator.
‘Now we’re getting to the good part,’ Torsten continued. ‘We’ll let the rabid fox loose in the forest. It’s insanely aggressive, as you both saw, and the beaters will be well equipped with leathers all the way up to the groin.’ He gestured with his hands to illustrate. ‘We, the hunters, will be the ones exposed. Of course I’ll see to it that there’s vaccine near by, but even the flesh wounds it can deliver in its crazy frenzy are enough to kill a man. A torn femoral artery! You know what that’ll do.’
‘When are you going to tell the others?’ Ulrik asked gleefully.
‘Just before we begin. But here’s the best part, my friends. Look at this.’
He ducked behind a bale of straw and pulled out a weapon. Ditlev was immediately wild about his selection. It was a crossbow with a scope. In no way was this legal in Denmark following the weapons law reform of 1989, but it was truly murderous and superb to aim with. If you could, that is. And you had only one chance to hit the
target, because it took time to reload. It would be a hunt with many great, unknown risks. Just as it should be.
‘The Relayer Y25, it’ll be called. Excalibur’s anniversary model, out this spring. Only one thousand will be produced, plus these two. It doesn’t get any better than this.’ He scooped another crossbow from its hiding spot and handed one to each of them.
Ditlev took his with outstretched arm. It weighed next to nothing.
‘We managed to sneak them into the country in disassembled pieces. Each part was sent separately. I thought one of the pieces had been lost in the mail, but it turned up yesterday.’ He grinned. ‘One year in transit. What do you think?’
Ulrik snapped the string. It sounded like a harp. Sharp and clear-toned.
‘The manual states it can pull two hundred pounds, but I think it’s more. And with a 2219 bolt, even large animals can’t survive a shot at up to ninety yards. Watch this.’
Torsten grabbed a crossbow, set the stirrup on the floor and placed his foot on it. Then he pulled hard, tightened and locked it. They knew he’d done it many times before.
He pulled a bolt from the quiver under the bow and carefully locked it, accomplishing the task in a single long, lithe and silent movement, so unlike the explosive force he was about to unleash at the target forty-five yards ahead.
They had expected Torsten would hit the bull’s eye, but not the sizeable arc the bolt first described through the air, nor that it would hit the target so forcefully that it disappeared from view.
‘When you hit the fox, make sure you’re standing higher up, so the bolt doesn’t strike one of the beaters when it tears through the fox’s body, because unless you hit the shoulder blades, it will. And it would probably be best not to, since it won’t die from the wound; it’ll just keep running.’
He gave them a slip of paper.
‘Here’s a link online to directions on assembling and using the crossbow. I recommend you watch all the videos very thoroughly.’
Ditlev glanced at the link:
http://www.excaliburcrossbow.com/demo/listings.php?category-id=47
.
‘Why?’ he then asked.
‘Because you two are going to win the draw.’
Carl returned to the basement to find a single height-adjustable table assembled on wobbly legs. Next to it he found Rose on her knees, cursing at a screwdriver.
Nice rump
, he thought, stepping over her without a word.
He cast a sidelong glance at the table, and saw with foreboding at least twenty yellow notes in Assad’s characteristic block letters. Five of them were messages saying that Marcus Jacobsen had called. He crumpled those up immediately. The rest he gathered in a sticky mass and shoved in his back pocket.
He peeked into Assad’s little cubbyhole of an office and discovered the prayer rug on the floor and the chair empty.
‘Where is he?’ he asked Rose.
She didn’t bother to respond. Simply pointed behind Carl’s back.
He looked into his own office and saw Assad sitting with his legs planted on the paper forest on his desk, reading eagerly and appearing lost in thought, his head bobbing in rhythm to the buzzing music of indefinable origin streaming from his headphones. A steaming glass of tea sat in the centre of a stack of papers that Carl had labelled ‘Category 1: Cases without perpetrators’. It all looked very cosy and organized.
‘What the hell are you doing, Assad?’ he barked. So
brusquely that the man jerked like a marionette, sending file pages floating silently through the air and splashing tea all over the desk.
Assad threw himself across the desk in a flurry, using his sleeves like a tea towel. Not until Carl put a reassuring hand on Assad’s shoulder did his look of surprise disappear, replaced by his usual, mischievous grin that implied he was sorry but couldn’t help it and besides he had exciting news to share. Only then did he remove his headphones.