Текст книги "Disgrace"

Автор книги: Jussi Adler-Olsen

Соавторы: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

11

It often happens the day a man turns forty. Or the day he earns his first million. Or, at the very least, when the day comes where his father retires to a life of crossword puzzles. On that day, most men will know what it’s like to finally be free of patriarchal condescension, overbearing comments and critical glares.

But that’s not how things had gone for Torsten Florin.

He had more money than his father and had distanced himself from his four younger siblings, who, unlike him, hadn’t managed to make anything significant of themselves. He had even been on television and in the newspapers more often than his father. All of Denmark knew him. He was admired, especially by the women his father had always hankered after.

Yet whenever he heard his father’s voice on the telephone, he still felt awful. Like a difficult child, inferior and scorned. It gave him this indefinable knot in his stomach that would only disappear if he slammed the phone down.

But Torsten didn’t slam the phone down. Never when it was his father.

And after such a conversation, no matter how short, it was nearly impossible for Torsten to drive the anger and frustration from his body.

‘The eldest child’s lot,’ was how the only decent teacher at boarding school had once put it, and Torsten had hated him for it. For if it were true, how could a man change anything? The question had occupied his thoughts day after day. Ulrik and Kristian had felt the same way.

This painful, shared hatred of their fathers had united them. And when Torsten helped beat their blameless victims to a pulp or twisted the necks of his teacher’s carrier pigeons – or later in life, when he gazed into a competitor’s horrified eyes just as they realized he’d created another new, unsurpassed collection – his thoughts turned towards his father.

‘Bloody arsehole,’ he said, trembling, when his father hung up. ‘Bloody arsehole,’ he hissed to his diplomas and the myriad hunting trophies mounted on the walls. Had it not been for the designers, his chief purchaser and four-fifths of the firm’s best clients and competitors in the adjacent room, he would have bellowed out his rage. Instead, he grabbed the old yardstick he’d been given on the fifth anniversary of the firm’s founding and smashed it into the mounted head of a chamois.

‘Arsehole, arsehole, arsehole!’ he whispered fiercely, hacking the small goat-antelope trophy again and again.

When he noticed the sweat gathering at the nape of his neck, he stopped and tried to think clearly. His father’s voice and what he’d told him filled his mind more than was healthy.

Torsten looked up. Outside, where the forest met the garden, a few hungry magpies flitted about. They cawed cheerfully while pecking at the carcasses of birds that earlier had felt his wrath.

Fucking birds, he thought, and knew that now he was growing calmer. He lifted his bow from the wall hook, grabbed a few arrows from the quiver behind his desk, opened the terrace door and shot at the birds.

By the time their chattering had quieted, the rush of anger burning inside his head had vanished. It worked every time.

He walked across the lawn, pulled the arrows from the birds, kicked the cadavers into the forest with the others, went back to his office, listened in on his guests’ ceaseless jabber, hung his bow back on its hook and tossed the arrows back in the quiver. Only then did he phone Ditlev.

‘The police were up in Rørvig talking to my father,’ was the first thing he said when Ditlev answered.

There was a moment of silence on the other end. ‘OK,’ Ditlev replied, emphasizing the last syllable. ‘What did they want?’

Torsten breathed deeply. ‘They wanted to know about the brother and sister up at Dybesø. Nothing specific. If the old fool understood correctly, someone contacted the police and sowed doubt on Bjarne’s guilt.’

‘Kimmie?’

‘I don’t know, Ditlev. As I recall, they didn’t say who.’

‘Warn Bjarne, OK? Immediately. What else?’

‘Dad suggested the police contact Krum.’

The laughter on the other end of the line was classic Ditlev: totally ice-cold. ‘Krum? They won’t get anything out of him,’ he said.

‘No. But apparently they’ve begun some sort of investigation, and that’s bad enough.’

‘Were they from Holbæk Police?’ Ditlev asked.

‘I don’t think so. The old man thought they were from Copenhagen’s Homicide Division.’

‘Jesus Christ. Did your father get their names?’

‘No. As usual, the arrogant bastard wasn’t listening. But Krum will get them.’

‘Forget it. I’ll phone Aalbæk. He knows a couple of blokes at police headquarters.’

After the conversation, Torsten sat staring blankly into space for a while as his breathing grew deeper. His brain was permeated with images of terrified people begging for mercy, screaming for help. Memories of blood, and the laughter of the others in the gang. Them all talking about it afterwards. Kristian’s photo collection that brought them together night after night, smoking until they were high or pumped up with amphetamines. In such moments he recalled everything and he both revelled in it and hated himself for doing so.

He opened his eyes wide to sink back into reality. Typically it took a few minutes for him to get the frenzy of rage out of his bloodstream, but the erotic arousal always remained.

He put his hand to his crotch. His cock was hard again.

Shit! Why couldn’t he control these feelings? Why did it continue, on and on?

He locked the door to the adjacent suites, from which the voices of half of Denmark’s fashion barons and baronesses could be heard.

He inhaled sharply and sank slowly to his knees.

Then he folded his hands and let his head fall forward. Sometimes it simply felt necessary. ‘Our Father who art in heaven,’ he whispered a couple of times. ‘Forgive me. For I cannot help myself.’

12

Ditlev Pram quickly updated Aalbæk on the situation, ignoring the fool’s complaints about late nights and lack of manpower. So long as they paid his price, he better just keep his trap shut.

Then he swivelled his office chair and nodded pleasantly at his trusted colleagues around the conference table.

‘Excuse me,’ he said in English. ‘I have a problem with an old aunt who’s always straying from home. This time of year, we obviously need to find her before nightfall.’

They smiled agreeably, understanding what he meant. Family comes first. That’s how it was where they came from, too.

‘Thank you for a good briefing.’ He smiled broadly. ‘I’m very pleased that this team has become a reality. Northern Europe’s best doctors congregated in one place – could one wish for anything more?’ He smacked his palms on the tabletop. ‘Let’s get started, shall we? Will you begin, Stanislav?’

His head of plastic surgery nodded, flicking on the overhead projector. Stanislav showed them a man’s face on which lines had been drawn. ‘We will make incisions here, here and here,’ he said. He’d done the procedure before. Five times in Romania and twice in the Ukraine. In every case but one the feeling in the facial nerves had returned startlingly fast. He made it sound uncomplicated. A facelift, he claimed, could now be done with just half the incisions doctors typically used.

‘Take a look here,’ he said, ‘right at the top of the sideburns. A triangular area is removed and the skin is pulled up and sewn together with only a few stitches. Simple and straightforward.’

At this point Ditlev’s hospital director interrupted. ‘We have submitted descriptions of the operation to the journals.’ He pulled out one American and three European journals. Not the most prestigious, but they were good enough. ‘It will be published before Christmas. We call the treatment “The Stanislav Facial Correction”.’

Ditlev nodded. There was bound to be a great deal of money in this, and they were smart, these people. Ultra-professional scalpel technicians. Each earned a salary equal to that of ten doctors in their homeland. It didn’t make them feel guilty, and in that way all those present were equals: Ditlev, who made money from their labour; and the doctors, who made money from everyone else. An unusually advantageous hierarchy, especially since he was the one at the top. And right now he was objectively calculating that one failed operation out of seven was completely unacceptable. Ditlev avoided unnecessary risk. His time at boarding school had taught him that. If you were headed into a shitty situation, you steered clear of it. For that reason he was about to reject the entire project and fire his director for having submitted the articles for publication without his approval, and it was for the same reason that, deep down, he couldn’t think of anything else but Torsten’s telephone call.

The intercom behind him beeped. He arched backwards to push the button. ‘Yes, Birgitte?’

‘Your wife is on her way.’

Ditlev glanced round at the others. The dressing-down would have to wait, and the secretary would have to put a stop to the articles.

‘Ask Thelma to stay where she is,’ he said. ‘I’m coming over. We’re finished here.’

A glass walkway snaked from the clinic a hundred yards across the landscape to the villa, so you could walk through the garden without getting your feet wet and still enjoy the view of the sea and the beech trees. He got the idea from the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art. But at his house, no art adorned the walls.

Thelma was prepared to make a big scene. Just the kind of thing he wouldn’t want others to be witness to in his office. Her eyes were full of hate.

‘I spoke to Lissan Hjorth,’ she said bitingly.

‘Hmm, that took a while. Weren’t you supposed to be with your sister in Aalborg by now?’

‘I didn’t go to Aalborg, I was in Gothenburg, and not with my sister. You shot her dog, Lissan says.’

‘What do you mean, “you”? I assure you, it was an accident. The dog was utterly unmanageable and ran in among the quarry. I’d warned Hjorth. What were you doing in Gothenburg, by the way?’

‘It was Torsten who shot the dog.’

‘Yes, it was Torsten, and he’s very sorry. Should we buy a new pup for Lissan? Is that what this is all about? Now tell me, what were you doing in Gothenburg?’

Shadows fell across her forehead. Only an unusually heated temperament was capable of creating wrinkles in her ridiculously tight facial skin, the result of five facelifts, but Thelma Pram succeeded. ‘You gave my apartment in Berlin away to that little nobody, Saxenholdt. My apartment, Ditlev.’ She aimed a finger at him. ‘That was your last hunt, do you hear me?’

He approached her. It was the only way he could get her to step back. ‘You never used that apartment anyway, did you? You couldn’t get your lover to go with you, could you?’ He smiled. ‘Aren’t you getting a little old for him, Thelma?’

She raised her head, admirably adept at taking insults. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re saying, you realize that? Did you forget to sic Aalbæk on me this time, since you don’t know who he is? Did you, Ditlev, since you don’t know who I was in Gothenburg with?’ Then she laughed.

Ditlev was stopped in his tracks by the unexpected question.

‘It’ll be an expensive divorce, Ditlev. You do bizarre things – the kind of things that will cost you when lawyers enter the picture. Your perverse games with Ulrik and the others. How long do you think I’ll keep them secret for nothing?’

He smiled. It was a bluff.

‘Don’t you think I know what’s on your mind right now, Ditlev? She doesn’t dare, you’re thinking. She has it too good with me. But no, Ditlev, I’ve grown away from you. I don’t care about you. You can rot in prison for all I care. And you’d have to do without your slaves down in the laundry in the meantime. Do you think you can handle that, Ditlev?’

He stared at her throat. He was well aware how hard he could strike. And he knew where.

Like a civet cat, she sensed it and retreated.

If he were going to strike, he’d have to do it from behind. No one was invincible.

‘You’re sick in the head, Ditlev,’ she said. ‘I’ve always known that. You used to be sick in a fun way, but not any more.’

‘Then get a lawyer, Thelma.’

Her smile was like Salome’s when she requested that Herod bring John the Baptist’s head on a platter.

‘And face Bent Krum on the other side of the table? No way, Ditlev. I’ve got other plans. I’m just waiting for the right opportunity.’

‘Are you threatening me?’

Her hair was slipping out of her hairband. She thrust her head back and flashed her bare neck, showing him she wasn’t afraid of him. Mocking him.

‘You think I’m threatening you?’ There was fire in her eyes. ‘I’m not. When I’m ready, I’ll pack my clothes and leave. The man I’ve found is waiting for me. A mature man. You had no idea, did you, Ditlev? But he’s older than you. I know my appetites. A boy cannot satisfy them.’

‘I see. And who is he?’

She smiled haughtily. ‘Frank Helmond. Quite a surprise, isn’t it?’

Several thoughts collided in Ditlev’s head.

Kimmie, the police, Thelma, and now Frank Helmond.

Be careful what you’re getting involved in, he told himself, and considered for a moment going down to see which of the Filipinas was working the evening shift.

A new cloud of loathing sank over him. Frank Helmond, she’d said. How degrading! A chubby local politician. A member of the underclass. A complete nobody.

He searched for Helmond in Krak’s directory and found the address, even though he already knew it. Helmond wasn’t one to hide his light under a bushel, as was evident from the address. But that’s how the man was, and everyone knew it. Lived in a villa he couldn’t afford, in a neighbourhood where no one would ever dream of voting for his worthless party.

Ditlev went to his bookshelf, removed a thick volume and opened it. It was hollow inside, with just enough room for his small plastic bags of cocaine.

The first line blurred the image of Thelma’s pinched glare. The second line caused him to straighten his shoulders, look at the telephone and forget that the word ‘risk’ wasn’t in his dictionary. He simply wanted to put a stop to it. Why not do it the right way? Together with Ulrik. In the dark of night.

‘Shall we watch movies at your place?’ he asked, the very instant Ulrik picked up the receiver. He heard a contented sigh from the other end.

‘Do you mean that?’ Ulrik asked.

‘Are you by yourself?’

‘Yes. Damn it, Ditlev, are you serious?’ He was already excited.

It was going to be a brilliant evening.

They had seen the film countless times. Life wouldn’t have been the same without it.

The first time they’d watched A Clockwork Orange was at boarding school, at the beginning of their second year. A new teacher had misunderstood the school’s cultural diversity code and had shown the class both that film and another one called If, which was about a rebellion at an English boarding school. The larger theme had been British cinema from the sixties, which, it was believed, was very fitting for a school with British traditions. But no matter how interesting this teacher’s choice was, it was also utterly misguided, the school’s leadership decided after close scrutiny. The new teacher’s career was therefore brief.

The damage was already done, however, because Kimmie and the class’s newest pupil, Kristian Wolf, lapped up the films’ messages without qualm. Through them they discovered new possibilities for release and revenge.

Kristian was the one who took the lead. Since he was nearly two years older and completely unruly, the entire class looked up to him. He always carried a lot of cash with him, even though it was against school policy. He was always on the lookout, and with great care he selected Ditlev, Bjarne and Ulrik to be part of his gang. They were all alike in so many ways. They were outsiders, and they were filled with hatred for the school and any authority figure. Yes, that – and A Clockwork Orange – glued them together.

They found the film on video and watched it time after time on the sly in Kristian and Ulrik’s room. And as a result of this fascination they made a pact. They would be just like the gang in the film. Indifferent to their surroundings. Constantly on the hunt for excitement and ways to transgress. Devil-may-care and merciless.

When they assaulted the boy who caught them smoking hash, everything suddenly came together. Only later did Torsten, with his usual flair for histrionics, suggest they wear masks and gloves.

Ditlev and Ulrik drove from Fredensborg with several lines of cocaine in their veins and the pedal to the metal. Dark sunglasses and long, cheap trench coats. Hats, gloves. Cold, clear heads. Disposable gear for a lively evening under the cloak of anonymity.

‘Who are we looking for?’ Ulrik asked when they stood before the JFK café’s saffron-yellow facade on the town square in Hillerød.

‘Wait and see,’ Ditlev said, opening the door to a rowdy Friday crowd. Noisy people in every corner. Not a bad place to be if you liked jazz and casual company. Ditlev hated both.

They found Helmond in the back. Full face glistening, he was standing in the company of another inferior local politician, gesticulating eagerly under the bar’s chandelier. Here, in this public space, they were engaged in their own little crusade.

Ditlev discreetly pointed him out to Ulrik. ‘It may take a while before he leaves, so let’s get a beer and wait,’ he said, heading to one of the bars further away.

But Ulrik stood still and observed their prey with enormous pupils behind tinted glasses, obviously quite content with what he saw. His jaw muscles were already quivering.

Ditlev knew him well.

The evening was foggy and mild, and Frank Helmond talked to his companion for a long time outside the café before they finally went off in separate directions. Frank doddered further up Helsingørsgade, and they followed him at a distance of fifteen yards, knowing that from here to the local police station was two hundred yards at most. Another parameter that made Ulrik pant with lust.

‘We’ll wait until we reach the alley,’ Ulrik whispered. ‘There’s a second-hand shop on the left. No one walks through the alley this late.’

Further on, an elderly couple strolled up the fog-shrouded lane, headed towards the end of the street, their shoulders drooping. It was way past their bedtime.

Ditlev wasn’t concerned with them in the slightest; that’s how the coke operated. Apart from the couple, the street was deserted and conditions were perfect. The pavement was dry. A moist breeze embraced the shopfronts and the three men who were each about to play a role in a carefully orchestrated and thoroughly practised ritual.

When they were a few yards from Frank Helmond, Ulrik handed Ditlev a mask. By the time they reached him, the latex masks were in place. Had they been at a carnival, people would have smiled at them. Ulrik had a huge cardboard box stuffed with these masks. As he said, they needed a selection to choose from. This time he’d chosen model numbers 20027 and 20048. They could be purchased on the Internet, but Ulrik didn’t do that. He brought them home from abroad. The same masks each time, the same numbers. Impossible to trace. Here were just two old men with the deep furrows of life chiselled into their skin. Very lifelike, and quite different from the faces they hid.

As always it was Ditlev who struck first. It was he who made the victim fall sideways slightly with a quiet gasp. Then Ulrik grabbed him and hauled him into the alley.

It was here that Ulrik punched him for the first time. Three direct blows to the forehead and one to the throat. Depending on their strength, the victims were often unconscious by now. But he hadn’t landed any hard blows this time. Ditlev had instructed him not to.

They dragged the man’s half-limp body, legs splayed, through the alley. When they reached the castle lake ten yards further ahead, they beat him again. First just light punches to the body, then they got a little rougher. When the paralysed man realized he was in the process of being killed, tiny, inarticulate sounds began slipping from his mouth. He hadn’t really needed to say anything; their victims seldom did. Their eyes usually said it all.

At this point Ditlev’s body swelled with pulsing streams of warmth. This is what he sought: wonderful surges of heat. Just like in his childhood, sitting under the sun in his parents’ garden, when he was so young the world still seemed made of elements that were benign. Whenever Ditlev reached this point, he had to restrain himself in order not to take the victim’s life.

With Ulrik it was different. Death was of little interest to him. It was the vacuum between strength and impotence that drew him, and their present prey found himself in that vacuum right now.

Ulrik straddled the man’s motionless body and stared into his eyes through the mask. Then he pulled his Stanley knife from his pocket, holding it in such a way that his enormous hand almost hid it. For a moment it looked as though he was discussing with himself whether or not to follow Ditlev’s instructions or ramp it up a notch. Their eyes met through the masks.

I wonder if I look as crazy as he does, Ditlev thought.

Then Ulrik put the knife against the man’s throat. Let the dull edge glide back and forth across his arteries. As the man began to hyperventilate, Ulrik ran the blade along his nose and across his trembling eyelids.

This wasn’t the cat toying with the mouse – it was worse. The prey wasn’t waiting for a chance to escape; it had already resigned itself to its fate.

At last Ditlev nodded calmly to Ulrik and turned his attention towards the man’s legs. In a moment, when Ulrik cut his face, he would see them jerk in fright.

And now. Now the leg spasms, this wondrous seizure in which the victim’s powerlessness was more evident than ever. Nothing else in Ditlev’s life could equal this kick.

He watched blood drip on to the gravel, but Frank Helmond didn’t utter a peep. He’d acknowledged his role. Ditlev would give him that.

They left him groaning at the edge of the lake. They’d done a good job. He would survive, but he would be dead inside. It would take years before he dared walk the streets again.

The two Mr Hydes could go home, and the Dr Jekylls could re-emerge.

By the time he got home to Rungsted, half the night was gone and he was relatively clear-headed. He and Ulrik had cleaned up, thrown their hats, gloves, coats and sunglasses in the fire and hidden the Stanley knife under a stone in the garden. After that they’d called Torsten and agreed on the course of events for the rest of the evening. Torsten, understandably enough, was livid. Complained that it hadn’t been the right time to do something like that, and they knew he was right. But Ditlev didn’t need to apologize to Torsten, nor did he need to beg him. Torsten was well aware that they were all in it together. If one went down, they all went down. It was as simple as that. And if the police drew close, it was just a question of having their alibis ready.

For that reason alone Torsten agreed on the story the other two had concocted: Ditlev and Ulrik had met at JFK in Hillerød fairly late in the evening, and after a single beer they’d headed up to Torsten’s in Ejlstrup, arriving at 11 p.m. That was the basis of their alibi. In other words, half an hour before the attack occurred. No one could prove otherwise. Maybe someone had seen them in the bar, but would they remember who was where, when, and for how long? Then the three old friends had drunk cognac up at Torsten’s place. Talked about the old days. Nothing special. Just a cosy Friday evening together. That was what they’d say, and what they’d stick to.

Ditlev entered the hallway and confirmed to his satisfaction that the entire house was dark, and that Thelma had retreated to her lair. Then he stood by the fireplace and emptied three snifters of Cypriot brandy, one after the other, so the blissful buzz of his act of revenge could gradually return to a more natural level and he could regain control of his thoughts.

He stepped across the ceramic-tiled kitchen floor to open a tin of caviar, which he could consume while picturing Frank Helmond’s terrified face. These tiles were the housekeeper’s Achilles heel. Thelma’s inspections always ended with a scolding, and no matter how much of an effort the woman made, she could never satisfy Thelma. When it came down to it, who could?

So it was as obvious as blinding sunlight that something was wrong as he stared down at the chequered pattern and discovered the footprints. They weren’t large, but they weren’t a child’s, either. Dirt-smudged.

Ditlev pursed his lips. Stood a moment with his senses on high alert. Yet he detected nothing. Neither smell nor sound. He edged to the knife block and chose the biggest of the Misono knives that could fillet sushi like no other. It would be very unfortunate for anyone who got in its way.

Carefully he stepped through the double doors into the arboretum, instantly aware of a draught coming from the windows, even though they were all closed. Then he noticed the hole in one of the windows. It was small, but there it was.

He scanned the arboretum floor. Additional footprints, more havoc. Chaotically spread shards of glass that bore witness to a simple burglary. Since the alarm hadn’t gone off, it must have happened before Thelma had gone to bed.

Suddenly he felt panic spreading through him.

On his way back to the hall he grabbed another knife from the block. The feel of their handles in each hand gave him a sense of security. He didn’t fear the force of an attack so much as the sheer surprise of it, so he held the knives raised on each side and glanced over his shoulder with each step.

Then he walked upstairs and stood at Thelma’s bedroom door.

A narrow strip of light seeped out from beneath it.

Was someone in there, waiting for him?

Gripping the knives hard, he cautiously pushed the door inward. There sat Thelma in the centre of the bed. Wearing her negligee and looking very much alive, her eyes large and angry.

‘Did you come to kill me, too?’ she said, with intense loathing in her expression. ‘Is that it?’

Then she drew a pistol from under the duvet and aimed it at him.

It wasn’t the weapon but the iciness of her voice that stopped him and caused him to drop the knives.

He knew Thelma. If it had been anyone else it might have been a joke. But Thelma didn’t joke. She didn’t possess a sense of humour. He stood stock-still.

‘What happened?’ he said, sizing up the pistol. It looked real, big enough to shut anyone up. ‘I can see that someone broke into the house, but there’s no one here now, so you can put that thing down.’ He could feel the after-effects of the cocaine swirling round in his veins. The mixture of adrenalin and drugs was potentially an incomparable combination. Just not right now.

‘Where the bloody hell did you get that gun? Come on now, be a good girl and put it down, Thelma. Tell me what happened.’ But Thelma didn’t move an inch.

She looked sexy, lying there. Sexier than she had in years.

He tried to come closer, but she stopped him by clutching the pistol tighter. ‘You attacked Frank, Ditlev. You just couldn’t let him be, could you, you monster?’

How the hell could she know? And so quickly?

‘What do you mean?’ he said, trying to hold her gaze.

‘He’s going to survive, you know. Which is not to your advantage, Ditlev, as I’m sure you understand.’

Ditlev took his eyes off her and glanced at the knives on the floor. He shouldn’t have dropped them.

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ he said. ‘I was at Torsten’s this evening. Call him and ask.’

‘You and Ulrik were seen at JFK in Hillerød this evening. That’s all I need to know, do you hear?’

In the old days he would have felt his defence mechanisms steering him towards telling a lie, but right now he felt nothing. She already had him right where she wanted him.

‘That’s correct,’ he said without blinking. ‘We were there before we went to Torsten’s. What about it?’

‘I can’t be bothered to listen to you, Ditlev. Come here. Sign your name. Otherwise I’ll kill you.’

She pointed at a few documents lying at the foot of the bed, then fired off a shot that blasted a hole in the wall behind Ditlev. He turned and estimated the extent of the damage. The hole was as big as a man’s hand.

Then he cast a quick glance at the top sheet of paper. It was a rather tough pill to swallow. If he signed, she would get a good thirty-five million kroner per year for the twelve years they’d circled each other like beasts of prey.

‘We won’t report you, Ditlev. Not if you sign this. So do it now.’

‘If you report me, then you won’t get anything, Thelma. Did you consider that? I’ll let the fucking business go bankrupt while I’m in prison.’

‘You’ll sign. Don’t you think I know that?’ Her laughter resounded with contempt. ‘You know as well as I do that things don’t move so quickly. I’ll still get my share of the spoils before you go broke. Maybe not as much, but enough. But I know you, Ditlev. You’re a practical sort. Why throw away your business and sit in jail when you can afford to rid yourself of the wife in a normal fashion? So you’ll sign. And tomorrow you’ll admit Frank to the clinic, understand? I want him as good as new in a month. Even better than new.’

He shook his head. She’d always been a devil. Birds of a feather flock together, as his mother used to say.

‘Where did you get the pistol, Thelma?’ he asked calmly, taking the documents and scrawling his signature on the top two pages. ‘What happened?’

She stared at the papers, waiting until she had them in her hand before responding.

‘It’s too bad you weren’t here tonight, Ditlev, because then I don’t think I would have needed your signature.’

‘Is that so? And why is that?’

‘Some filthy, dirty woman smashed the window and threatened me with this.’ She waved the weapon. ‘She was asking for you, Ditlev.’

Thelma laughed, and the strap of her negligee slid off one shoulder. ‘I told her I would gladly let her in the front door next time she passed by. Then she could do whatever she wished without all the bother of smashing windows.’

Ditlev felt his skin grow cold.