Текст книги "Disgrace"

Автор книги: Jussi Adler-Olsen

Соавторы: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

31

‘Just take two of these Frisium,’ she had said, before shoving a couple of tiny pills into his maw and two more into his breast pocket with the teddy bear for the return flight.

He’d glanced confusedly around the terminal and ticket desks for an authoritarian soul who might find some kind of fault with him: the wrong clothes, the wrong look. Anything to deliver him from taking the dreaded escalator to perdition.

She had given him a detailed printout of his itinerary, along with Kyle Basset’s business address, a pocket dictionary and strict orders not to swallow the two remaining pills until he was seated in the plane home. All that and a lot more. A few minutes from now he wouldn’t be able to repeat half of it. How could he? He hadn’t slept a wink the entire night, and a swiftly developing, explosive case of diarrhoea was churning in his nether regions.

‘They can make you a little drowsy,’ she said in conclusion, ‘but they work, trust me. You won’t be afraid of anything after taking them. The plane could crash, for that matter, and you wouldn’t even notice.’

He saw that she regretted that last part as she guided him to the escalator with his provisional passport and boarding pass in hand.

Already halfway down the runway sweat began trickling from Carl, so that his shirt grew noticeably darker and his feet began to slide in his shoes. The pills had started doing their job, he’d noticed, but the way his heart was presently thumping in his chest, he might just as well die of a heart attack.

‘Are you all right?’ the woman next to him asked cautiously, extending her hand for him to hold on to.

As the plane climbed thirty thousand feet into the atmosphere he felt as though he were holding his breath. The only thing he sensed was the turbulence and the inexplicable creaking and bumping of the fuselage.

He opened the fresh-air nozzle, then closed it. Leaned his seat back, felt to see if his life vest was under it and said no thank you each time the stewardess approached.

And then he went out like a light.

‘Look, that’s Paris down there,’ the woman beside him said at one point, from far, far away. He opened his eyes and recalled the nightmare, the exhaustion, the influenza aches in all his joints, and finally saw a hand pointing out the shadows of something that the hand’s owner believed was the Eiffel Tower and the Place d’Etoile.

Carl nodded and couldn’t possibly have cared less. As far as he was concerned Paris could kiss a certain place on his person. He just wanted out of the plane.

She could see how he was feeling so she took his hand again and held it until he awoke with a start as the plane hit Barajas Airport’s runway.

‘You were completely out of it,’ she said, pointing at the sign for the Metro.

He patted the little talisman in his breast pocket and then felt his inside pocket where he kept his wallet. For a brief, tired moment he discussed with himself whether his Visa card would be of any use in such a foreign place.

‘It’s easy,’ the woman told him, after he’d explained to her where he needed to go. ‘You buy the Metro card right over there and then you ride the escalator down. Take the train to Nuevos Minesterios, change to the number 6 line and go to Cuatro Caminos, then take the number 2 line to the Opera. After that it’s just one stop on the number 5 line and you’re at Callao. At which point you only have to go about a hundred yards to the place where you have your meeting.’

Carl looked around for a bench that could give his leaden head and legs a little tour in the land of rest.

‘I’ll show you the way. I’m heading in the same direction. I saw how you were feeling in the plane,’ a friendly soul said in perfect Danish, and Carl directed his gaze towards a man of obvious Asian ethnicity. ‘My name is Vincent,’ he said, shuffling off with his luggage rolling behind.

This wasn’t exactly how he’d envisioned a peaceful Sunday as he laid himself ponderously under his duvet only a few hours earlier.

After a smooth, half-unconscious rumbling along on the Metro he emerged from the labyrinthine corridors of Callao Station and stood eyeing Gran Via’s iceberg-like, monumental structures. Neo-impressionistic, functionalistic, classicistic colossi, if anyone were to ask him to describe them. He had never seen anything like it: the noises, the scents, the heat and the incredible bustle of busy, dark-haired people. There was only one person he saw who he could identify with. An almost toothless beggar sitting on the pavement right in front of him with a cornucopia of coloured plastic lids before him, each of which was open for donations. There were coins and bills in every single one. Currencies from around the globe. Carl couldn’t understand half of what was going on, but there was self-irony lurking in the man’s flashing eyes. Your choice, his eyes said. Will you donate beer, wine, spirits or fags?

The people milling around him smiled. One pulled out a camera and asked if he could snap his picture. The beggar grinned broadly and toothlessly while hefting a sign into view.

It read: PHOTOS, 280 EUROS.

It worked. Not only on the assembled crowd, but also on Carl’s wilted state of mind and atrophied funny bone. His eruption of laughter came as a strikingly welcome surprise. This was self-irony at its finest. The beggar even handed him a business card listing his website, www.lazybeggars.com. Chortling, Carl shook his head and reached into his pocket in spite of his general aversion to people who begged on the street.

It was at this moment that Carl snapped back to reality, his whole being inflamed with the desire to kick a certain female colleague in Department Q clear off the playing field.

Here he was, feeling like shit in a country he didn’t know. Dosed up on pills that muddled his brain. His immune response mechanisms were causing every joint in his body to ache. And now his pocket was gapingly empty as well. He’d always smiled whenever he heard about incautious tourists, and now he – the deputy detective superintendent who spotted danger and suspicious characters everywhere – was one of them. How stupid could a person be? And on a Sunday.

Status quo: no wallet. Not even any lint in his pocket. The price of spending twenty minutes packed into an overfilled Metro. No credit cards, no provisional passport, no driver’s licence, no crisp banknotes, no Metro tickets, no telephone list, no health-insurance card, no plane tickets.

A person couldn’t sink any lower.

They gave him a cup of coffee in a waiting room at KB Construcciones, SA, and let him fall asleep facing dusty windows. A quarter of an hour earlier a desk clerk had stopped him in the foyer of Gran Via 31 and refused to have his appointment verified for several minutes since he was unable to present any form of identification. The guy couldn’t stop running his mouth off and his words were incomprehensible. Finally Carl shook his head angrily, found the hardest tongue-twister for foreigners to say in Danish, and yelled: ‘Rødgrød med fløde!’ (‘Strawberries with cream!’)

That helped.

‘Kyle Basset,’ said a voice miles away, after he had dozed off again.

Carl opened his eyes cautiously, afraid he’d wound up in purgatory, his head and body throbbed so much.

He was handed another cup of coffee in front of the gigantic barred windows in Basset’s office, and now with a relatively clear head he saw a face in its mid-thirties that knew very well what it stood for. Wealth, power and immoderate self-confidence.

‘Your colleague briefed me,’ Basset said. ‘You’re investigating a series of murders that may be connected to the people who assaulted me at my boarding school. Is that correct?’

He spoke Danish with an accent. Carl looked around. It was an enormous office. Down on Gran Via people were storming out of shops with names like Sfera and Lefties. In these surroundings it was practically a miracle that the man still understood Danish at all.

‘It could be a series of murders, we don’t know yet.’ Carl drank the coffee greedily. A very dark roast. Not exactly something that helped his fermenting intestines. ‘You say outright that they were the ones who assaulted you. Why didn’t you say so back when there was a case against them?’

He laughed. ‘I did, and much earlier. To the relevant party.’

‘And that was?’

‘My dad, who was an old boarding-school mate of Kimmie’s father.’

‘I see. And what came out of that?’

He shrugged and opened a chased silver cigarette case. Such things apparently still existed. He offered Carl a cigarette. ‘How long do you have?’

‘My flight leaves at 4.20.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Oops, then we don’t have very long. You’re taking a taxi, I assume?’

Carl inhaled the smoke deeply. That helped. ‘I’ve got a little problem,’ he said a bit sheepishly.

He explained how he had been pickpocketed on the Metro. No money, no provisional passport, no plane ticket.

Kyle Basset pushed a button on the intercom. His commands didn’t sound friendly. More like the kind he’d say to people he held in contempt.

‘I’ll give you the short version then.’ Basset gazed at the white building across the street. Maybe there were painful reminiscences showing in his eyes, but it was hard to tell, petrified and hard as they were.

‘My father and Kimmie’s father agreed that when the time came, however long that took, she would be punished. I was OK with that. I knew her father well. Willy K. Lassen, yes, and for that matter, I still know him. He owns a flat just two minutes from mine in Monaco and is quite an uncompromising person. Not someone you’d want to provoke, I would say. Not back then, in any case. He’s gravely ill now. Not much life left in him.’ He smiled. It seemed a rather odd reaction.

Carl pursed his lips. So Kimmie’s father was seriously ill, as he’d tried to convince Tine. Well, how about that? As he’d learned over the course of time, reality and fantasy have a tendency to blend together.

‘Why Kimmie?’ he said. ‘You only name her. Weren’t the others equally guilty? Ulrik Dybbøl Jensen, Bjarne Thøgersen, Kristian Wolf, Ditlev Pram, Torsten Florin? Weren’t they all there?’

Basset folded his hands as the burning cigarette dangled from his lips. ‘Are you saying you think they consciously selected me as their victim?’

‘I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know much about the incident.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you then. I was a completely random victim, I’m convinced of that. And how it turned out was just as random.’ He put his hand on his chest and leaned forward slightly. ‘Three of my ribs were broken, the rest were separated from my collarbone. I peed blood for days afterwards. They could’ve easily killed me. The fact they didn’t was also totally accidental, I can assure you.’

‘Uh huh, but where are you going with this? It doesn’t explain why your revenge should only be exacted on Kimmie Lassen.’

‘You know what, Mørck? They taught me something the day they attacked me, those bastards. Actually, in a way I’m grateful.’ With each word of his next sentence he tapped on his desk. ‘I learned that when opportunity presents itself, you take it, whether it’s random or not. Without considering fairness or another person’s guilt or innocence. That’s the business world’s alpha and omega, you understand? Sharpen your weapons and use them constantly. Just go for it. In this case my weapon was being able to influence Kimmie’s father.’

Carl took a deep breath. It didn’t sound especially sympathetic to his provincial ears. He squinted his eyes. ‘I still don’t think I completely understand.’

Basset shook his head. He had expected as much. They were from different planets.

‘I’m just saying that since it was easiest to go after Kimmie, then she was the one who’d have to suffer my revenge,’ he said.

‘You didn’t care about the others?’

He shrugged. ‘If I’d had the chance, I would have avenged myself on them, too. I simply haven’t had that chance. You and I each have our own hunting grounds, you might say.’

‘Then Kimmie wasn’t any more actively involved than the others? Who would you say was the prime mover in that gang?’

‘Kristian Wolf, of course. But if all those devils were on the move at once, I believe Kimmie is the one I would stay farthest away from.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was very neutral when they began on me. Mostly it was Florin, Pram and Kristian Wolf. But when they’d had enough – I was bleeding from my ear, after all, so they were probably scared – then Kimmie started in.’

He flared his nostrils as if he were still able to sense her proximity. ‘They wound her up, you see. Especially Wolf. He and Pram groped her until she was worked up and then they shoved her towards me.’ He clenched his fists. ‘At first she only tapped a little, then it got worse and worse. When she noticed how much it hurt, her eyes grew wider and wider, she breathed deeper and deeper and hit harder and harder. She was the one who kicked me in the abdomen – with the toe of her shoe. And hard.’ He stubbed his cigarette out in an ashtray that looked identical to a bronze statue on the roof across the street. Basset’s face seemed wrinkled. Only now in the sharp sunlight did Carl notice. Fairly early for such a young man.

‘If Wolf hadn’t intervened she would have continued until I was dead. I’m certain of that.’

‘And the others?’

‘Yes, the others.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I’d say they could barely wait until the next time. They were like spectators at a bullfight. Believe me, I know a thing or two about that.’

The secretary who’d given Carl his coffee entered the office. Slender and attractive in clothes that were dark like her hair and eyebrows. In one hand she held a small envelope that she gave to Carl. ‘Now you have some euros and a boarding pass for the trip home,’ she said in English, offering him a friendly smile.

Then she turned to her boss and slipped him a sheet of paper, which he scanned quickly. The unbridled anger this document induced reminded Carl of the wide-eyed Kimmie that Basset had just described for him.

Without hesitation Basset ripped the paper to shreds and bombarded the secretary with recriminations. His face looked wild, the wrinkles obvious now. The fierce reaction caused the woman to tremble and cast her eyes at the floor in shame. The scene definitely wasn’t nice to witness.

When she closed the door behind her, Basset smiled at Carl, seemingly unaffected. ‘She’s just a stupid little office mouse. Don’t concern yourself with her. Will you be able to make it home to Denmark now?’

He nodded silently and tried to express some form of gratitude, but it was difficult. Kyle Basset was just like the people who’d once done him harm. Devoid of empathy. He had demonstrated it right before Carl’s eyes. To hell with him and everyone like him, the dumb prick.

‘And Kimmie’s punishment?’ Carl said finally. ‘What was that?’

He laughed. ‘Ah, it was pure happenstance. She’d miscarried and had been seriously beaten up. All in all she was quite ill, so she went to her father for help.’

‘Which she didn’t get, I imagine.’ He pictured the young woman whom the father wouldn’t assist, even when she was in the greatest need. Had this lack of love already left its mark in the little girl’s face when she stood between her father and stepmother in the old Gossip photo?

‘Oh, it was nasty, I’ve been told. Her father lived at Hotel D’Angleterre at that time – he always does whenever he’s home – and she just came bursting in. What the hell had she expected?’

‘He got her thrown out?’

‘Head first, I can assure you.’ He chuckled. ‘But first she was given the chance to fish around on the floor for some thousand-krone bills he’d tossed at her. So she got something out of it, but after that it was goodbye and farewell for ever.’

‘She owns the house in Ordrup. Do you know why she didn’t go there?’

‘But she did. And she received the same treatment.’ Basset shook his head. He was positively indifferent. ‘Well, Carl Mørck, if you want to know more, you’re going to have to take a later flight. You have to check in quite early here, so if you’re going to make your 4:20 flight, you’ll have to leave now.’

Carl took a deep breath. He could already feel the plane’s turbulence arousing the anxiety centre of his brain. Then he remembered the tablets in his breast pocket, so he pulled out the teddy bear and then the pills. He set the teddy bear on the edge of the desk and took a sip of coffee so the pills could glide more easily down his throat.

He glanced over his cup at the chaos of papers on the desk, the pocket calculator, the fountain pen, the half-filled ashtray and finally at Kyle Basset’s clenched hands and completely white knuckles. Only then did he look up and see Basset’s face. What he saw was a man who probably for the first time in ages had been forced to surrender to the memory of some searing pain, which people are so good at inflicting on others and themselves.

Basset was staring intensely at the guileless, tiny stump of a stuffed animal. It was as if a lightning bolt of repressed feelings had just struck him.

He fell back in his chair.

‘Do you recognize this teddy bear?’ Carl asked, the pills stuck somewhere between his throat and his vocal chords.

Basset nodded, then for a moment drew strength from the rage that came to his rescue. ‘Yes, Kimmie always had it dangling from her wrist at school. I don’t know why. It had a red silk ribbon around its neck that tied it to her wrist.’

For a moment Carl thought Basset was going to give in and cry, but then his face hardened and the man who could humiliate an office mouse as if it were nothing at all was himself again.

‘Yes, I remember it all too well. It was dangling from her wrist when she beat me senseless. Where the hell did you get it?’

32

It was almost ten o’clock Sunday morning when she awoke in her room at the Hotel Ansgar. The TV was still flickering at the foot of her bed, showing Channel 2 News reruns of the previous night’s events. Even though the police had put in an enormous effort, they hadn’t come any closer to explaining the explosion near Dybbølsbro Station, and therefore the episode had faded somewhat into the background. Now attention was directed more at the American bombing of insurgents in Baghdad and Kasparov’s candidacy for president of Russia, but primarily it was focused on a body that had been discovered in front of the ramshackle red high-rise in Rødovre.

It was probably murder. Several indicators pointed in that direction, the police spokesman said. In particular the fact that the victim had clung to the balcony railing before falling and had been struck on the fingers with a blunt object – possibly the pistol that had been fired at a wooden figurine in the flat the same night. The police were stingy with their information and still did not have a suspect.

That’s what they said, anyway.

She hugged her bundle.

‘Now they know, Mille. Now the boys know I’m after them.’ She tried to smile. ‘Do you think they’re together now? Do you think Torsten and Ulrik and Ditlev are discussing what they should do when Mummy comes after them? I wonder if they’re afraid now.’

She rocked the bundle. ‘I think they deserve to be, after what they did to us, don’t you agree? And do you know what, Mille? They have good reason to be.’

On the screen the cameraman was attempting to zoom in to the ambulance crew who were moving the body, but it was clearly too dark to get decent footage.

‘Do you know what, Mille? I shouldn’t have told the others about the metal box. That wasn’t the right thing to do.’ She dried her eyes. The tears had come so suddenly.

‘I shouldn’t have told them. Why did I do that?’

She’d moved in with Bjarne Thøgersen, and that was sacrilege. If she was going to fuck anyone, it had to be in secret or with the entire gang; there was no other choice. And now this fatal breaking of all the golden rules. Not only had she picked one member over the others, she had also selected the one at the bottom of the hierarchy.

That was completely unacceptable.

‘Bjarne?’ Kristian had thundered. ‘What the hell do you want with that good-for-nothing?’ He wanted everything to remain as it had always been. Wanted their violent forays together to continue, wanted Kimmie to always be available to all of them, and only them.

But in spite of Kristian’s threats and pressure, Kimmie held firm. She’d chosen Bjarne; the others would have to settle for living with their memories.

For a while the group continued its orgies. They met about every fourth Sunday, snorted coke and watched violent films, then went off in one of Torsten’s or Kristian’s huge, four-wheel-drives in search of someone to harass and beat up. Sometimes they made an agreement with the victims and gave them blood money for the humiliation and pain they’d endured; sometimes they simply attacked them from behind and beat them senseless before they were seen. And there was also the rare occasion, like the time they found an old man fishing by himself at Esrum Lake, where they just knew their victim wasn’t going to leave alive.

This last type of assault was the kind that suited them best. When the conditions were right and they could go all the way. When everyone could play out his role to the fullest.

But something went wrong at Esrum Lake.

She saw how excited Kristian was becoming. He always got worked up, but this time his face grew quite dark and determined. Lips pursed tightly and eyes alert. He turned his frustration inward and stood far too quietly and passively, observing the others and watching how Kimmie’s clothes clung to her as they hauled the man out into the water.

‘Take her now, Ulrik!’ he shouted suddenly, as she squatted in the rushes with her knees apart and her summer dress dripping, watching the body float out into the lake and sink to the bottom. Ulrik’s eyes glinted at the opportunity, mixed with his fear of being inadequate. Time after time in the period before she went to Switzerland he’d had to give up penetrating her and let the others take over instead. It was as though this cocktail of violence and sex didn’t work for him like it did for the others. This letting the pulse rate fall before it could rise again.

‘Come on, Ulrik!’ the others cried, as Bjarne yelled at them to stop. It was then that Ditlev and Kristian grabbed hold of Bjarne and held him back.

She saw Ulrik unzipping his trousers, for once seemingly very ready. What she didn’t see was Torsten, who threw himself at her from behind and forced her to the ground.

If it weren’t for Bjarne’s cursing and wild punching and the subsequent shrivelling of Ulrik’s manhood, they would have raped her that day in front of the thicket of bullrushes.

It didn’t take long, however, before Kristian systematically began to seek her out. He couldn’t care less about Bjarne and the others. As long as he could have her, he was content.

Bjarne changed. When he and Kimmie talked together he seemed unfocused. Stopped returning her caresses and was often absent when she got home from work. Spent money he shouldn’t have had. Talked on the telephone when he thought she was asleep.

Kristian courted her favour everywhere. In the Nautilus pet shop, on the way home from work, in the flat she shared with Bjarne after he’d been given a cushy job by the others and was well out of the way.

And Kimmie derided him. Mocked Kristian for his dependency and lack of a sense of reality.

She quickly saw how his anger increased. How the steel in his eyes grew flinty and piercing.

But Kimmie didn’t fear him. What could he do to her that he hadn’t already done so many times before?

It finally happened that day in March when the comet Hyakutake was visible in the sky over Denmark. Bjarne was given a telescope by Torsten, and Ditlev had made his yacht available. The plan was that while Bjarne drank lots of beers and tried to fathom the enormity of the universe, Kristian, Ditlev, Torsten and Ulrik would break into his flat.

She never found out how they had managed to get hold of a door key, but suddenly they were standing there with their pupils small and nostrils itching from the coke. They said nothing, just went right at her, pressing her against the wall and tearing at her clothes until she was adequately accessible.

They didn’t get her to say anything because she knew it would only make them wilder. As if she hadn’t seen it plenty of times when they’d assaulted others.

The boys in the gang hated whining. So did Kimmie.

They threw her on the coffee table without clearing it first. The rape began when Ulrik straddled her stomach and grabbed her knees with his huge paws, forcing her to spread her legs. First she tried pounding his back, but the cocaine frenzy and his layer of fat absorbed the force of her blows. And what was the point, anyway? She knew Ulrik loved it. A thrashing, humiliation, coercion – whatever challenged conventional morality. Nothing was taboo for Ulrik. No fetish went untested. None. Still, he couldn’t get it up like everyone else.

When Ulrik climbed off her, Kristian got into position between her legs and pounded his will into her, until only the whites of his eyes were visible and his lips curled with self-satisfaction. Second was Ditlev, who finished quickly with his usual strange, cramp-like shuddering, and then came Torsten.

As his lean body was bulldozing her, Bjarne suddenly appeared in the doorway. She looked him straight in the face as recognition of his own inferiority was born inside him and the gang’s camaraderie broke his will and took over. She shouted at him to leave, but he didn’t.

After Torsten had pulled out of her, their collective deep breathing turned to jubilation when Bjarne took his place.

She stared into his detached, bluish-red face and saw clearly for the first time just what her life had become.

Resigning herself, she closed her eyes and drifted away.

The last she heard before completely disappearing into the protective fog of subconsciousness was their laughter when Ulrik wanted another try and failed once more to get an erection.

It was the last time she saw them all together.

‘My little darling, look what Mummy’s brought you.’

She unravelled the little person from the cloth and gazed at her with the sincerest tenderness. What a gift from God. Such small fingers and toes. Such tiny fingernails.

Then she unwrapped a package and held the contents in the air above the desiccated body.

‘Look, Mille, have you ever seen anything like it? Isn’t it just what we need on a day like today?’

She touched one little hand with her finger. ‘Mummy’s very warm, isn’t she?’ she asked. ‘Yes, Mummy is very warm.’ She laughed. ‘Your mum gets that way when she’s really excited. But you know that.’

She looked out of the window. It was the last day of September. Almost the same date she’d moved in with Bjarne twelve years ago. Except it hadn’t rained that day.

As far as she could recall.

When they’d finished raping her, they left her lying on the coffee table and sat in a circle on the floor snorting coke until they were totally blasted. They had screamed their lungs out laughing and Kristian had slapped her hard a few times on her naked thighs. Apparently as a sign of reconciliation.

‘Come on, Kimmie!’ Bjarne shouted. ‘Don’t be so prudish. It’s just us.’

‘It’s over now,’ she snarled. ‘Finished.’

She could tell they didn’t believe her. They thought she was too dependent on them, and that she would come crawling back before too long. But she wasn’t. Not ever. In Switzerland she had managed without them. She could do it again.

It took her a while to get up. Her perineum was burning. The ligaments in her hips were sprained, her neck ached and humiliation weighed her down.

That feeling returned with a vengeance when Kassandra greeted her at the house in Ordrup with scorn in her voice, and the words: ‘Is there anything in this world you are capable of doing right, Kimmie?’

The next day she learned that Torsten had bought her place of employment, Nautilus Trading A/S, and that she was now out of a job. One of the employees who had been her friend gave her a cheque and told her that unfortunately she would have to leave the premises. Florin had made the personnel changes, her colleague said. So if she wanted to lodge a complaint, she would have to approach him personally.

When she went to the bank to deposit the cheque, she discovered that Bjarne had emptied their account and closed it.

Under no circumstances would she be allowed to escape from their clutches. That was the plan.

During the following months she stayed in her quarters in the house at Ordrup. At night she fetched her food from the main kitchen and took it up to her flat. During the day she slept, her little teddy bear clasped in her hand and her legs tucked beneath her. Kassandra often stood outside the door, exercising her shrill voice, but Kimmie was deaf to the world.

For Kimmie didn’t owe anything to anyone, and Kimmie was pregnant.

‘You have no idea how happy I was when I discovered I was going to have you,’ she said, smiling at the little one. ‘I knew instantly that you were a girl and what I would call you: Mille. It was simply your name. Isn’t that funny and strange?’

Her hands fumbled a bit as she swaddled the body again. There she lay in the white cloth, like a tiny, wee Jesus child.

‘I so looked forward to having you and to our living in our house, just like other people do. Your mother was going to find a job as soon as you were born, and after Mum picked you up from the day nursery, we were just going to be together all the time.’

She pulled out a bag, set it on the bed and stuffed one of the hotel’s pillows into it. It looked secure and warm.

‘Yes, you and I were supposed to live in that house, just the two of us, and Kassandra just would’ve had to go.’

Kristian Wolf began calling her during the weeks before his wedding. The thought of being shackled made him desperate, as did her repeated rejections.

The summer was a grey one, yet it was a blissful time for Kimmie, who began to take control of her life. She had put the terrible things they’d done behind her. Now she was responsible, beginning anew.